-   SHEILA  * 
INTERVENES 

i  i 

STEPHEN   MCRENNA 


</  9  ^ 


SHEILA  INTERVENES 
STEPHEN    McKENNA 


BY  STEPHEN  McKENNA 

SHEILA  INTERVENES 
MIDAS  AND  Sow 

SONIA  MARRIED 

SONTA 

•  NINETY-SIX  HOURS'  LEAVE 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


SHEILA 
INTERVENES 


BY 

STEPHEN  McKENNA 

AUTHOR  OF  "MIDAS  AND  SON,"  "SONIA, 
"NINETY-SIX  HOURS'  LEAVE,"  ate. 


NEW 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 
A  WOMAN 

OP 
NO  IMPORTANCE 


For  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  the  night  he  died, 

Called  sons  and   sons'  sons  to  his  side, 

And  spoke,  "This  world  has  been  harsh  and  strange; 

Something  is  wrong:  there  needeth  a  change  .   .  . 

The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  Jacob  yet 

And  again  in  his  border  see  Israel  set   ... 

Ay,  the  children  of  the  chosen  race 

Shall  carry  and  bring  them  to  their  place: 

In  the  land  of  the  Lord  shall  lead  the  same, 

Bondsmen  and  handmaids.     Who  shall  blame, 

When  the  slaves  enslave,  the  oppressed  ones  o'er 

The  oppressor  triumph  for  ever  more?" 

BROWNING:  Holy  Cross  Day. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

13 


II    A  HUNGER  STRIKE  IN  BERKELEY  SQUARE     .        ...  35 

III  DINNER  FOR  Two  IN  THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM      ...  56 

IV  SHEILA  TAKES  POLITICS  UNDER  HER  PROTECTION    .     .  82 
V    How  LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  SHOULD  RUN      ....  104 

VI    CLAY  IN  THE  POTTER'S  HANDS 122 

VII    THE  TRUSTEES  OF  POSTERITY 137 

VIII    DENYS  HAS  NO  TIME  TO  BE  ROMANTIC 155 

IX    THK  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION       .     .    ' 173 

X    SHEILA  LOSES  THE  FIRST  GAME 196 

XI    MAURICE  MAKES  A  DISCREET  SPEECH 216 

XII    MAURICE  MAKES  A  LESS  DISCREET  SPEECH    ....  235 

255 

XIII  AM  UNPOSTED  LETTER    .... 

XIV  DENYS  TRIES  TO  KEEP  His  PROMISE 275 

XV    THK  END  OF  ONE  VISION  AND  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE 

.     .  296 

NEXT         


SHEILA  INTERVENES 


SHEILA  INTERVENES 

( 

CHAPTER  I 

A  VOICE   FROM    THE   PAST 

"It  does  not  matter  much  what  a  man  hates,  provided  he  hates 
something." — THE  NOTE  BOOKS  OF  SAMUEL  BUTLER. 

"On,  the  brute!  he's  simply  slain  my  ankle!"  Sheila 
Farling  limped  painfully  up  the  steps  to  the  boat  deck  and 
leant  against  the  rail,  nursing  the  injured  limb.  "Mr.  Play- 
fair,  why  don't  you  swear  or  offer  to  fetch  arnica  or  kill 
the  man  or  do  something.,  instead  of  standing  there  and 
treating  the  whole  thing  as  a  joke?" 

"You  wouldn't  let  me  carry  you  upstairs,  so  it  can't  be 
very  bad,"  said  Denys  Playfair,  "and  I  decline  point-blank 
to  kill  a  man  when  I've  not  even  been  introduced  to  him. 
It  isn't  done." 

"Nobody  loves  me!"  Resting  a  hand  on  his  shoulder 
she  hobbled  across  to  a  seat  and  sat  down.  "Tell  Father 
Time  to  come  and  say  good-bye  when  you  see  the  end  ap- 
proaching. I'm  afraid  he'll  miss  me  dreadfully,  I'm  the 
only  thing  he  has  to  care  for  in  the  whole  world.  And  I'm 
only  nineteen!  The  pathos  of  it!" 

Denys  sat  down  beside  her  and  began  filling  a  pipe. 

"I  propose  to  smoke  to  you  for  a  short  space,"  he  re- 
marked. "If  the  pain  hasn't  gone  in  five  minutes'  time, 
I  win » 

"What?" 

13 


i4  ,  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"Go  on  smoking." 

"I  think  the  modern  young  man  is  the  hardest,  coldest, 
unkindest,  unfeelingest  brute  in  creation.  And  that  settles 
that." 

He  lit  the  pipe,  held  the  match  for  her  to  blow  out,  and 
leant  with  an  amused  smile.  The  presence  of  Sheila  Farling 
on  board  had  almost  reconciled  him  to  the  idea  of  leaving 
the  south  where  he  had  been  spending  the  winter  on  ac- 
count of  his  health.  After  six  weeks  in  Granada  and  Al- 
geciras  he  had  joined  the  boat,  in  company  with  his  fellow- 
traveler,  Dr.  Gaisford,  at  Gibraltar,  and  they  had  lost  little 
time  in  striking  up  an  intimacy  with  Sheila  Farling  and 
her  grandfather.  The  Farlings  had  come  on  board  at 
Naples  after  a  winter  in  Sicily  and  the  south  of  Italy  and 
the  intimacy  had  been  fostered  by  the  fact  that  all  four 
sat  at  the  captain's  table  in  the  saloon,  and  that  Sir  William 
Farling  and  Denys  were  already  acquainted  as  colleagues  on 
the  board  of  the  Anglo-Hibernian  Life  Assurance  Corpora- 
tion. The  majority  of  the  other  passengers  had  come  the 
whole  way  from  Fremantle:  every  possible  friendship  had 
been  tried  and  broken  before  they  were  through  the  Canal, 
every  conceivable  combination  and  intensity  of  intrigue  at- 
tempted before  the  mails  were  put  ashore  at  Naples;  the 
last  eight  days  of  the  voyage  were  being  devoted  to  the 
exhaustion  of  retrospective  scandal. 

There  had  been  no  lack  of  hospitality  in  welcoming  the 
four  newcomers  to  the  feast  of  slaughtered  reputations,  but 
the  invitation  had  been  half-heartedly  received.  Old  Sir 
William  Farling,  white-haired,  erect,  immaculate,  courtly 
and  cynical,  had  moved  for  fifty  years  in  an  atmosphere  of 
grandes  scandales:  his  interest  was  awakened  by  the  re- 
lation of  the  innocent  and  unsuccessful  pursuit  of  the  third 
officer  or  the  compromising  behaviour  of  the  assistant 
purser.  It  was  more  amusing  to  him  to  exchange  anecdotes 
with  Dr.  Gaisford,  a  fellow  Irishman,  and,  though  younger 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  15, 

by  a  generation,  a  graduate  like  himself  of  Trinity  College, 
Dublin.  Sheila  and  Denys  had  gravitated  naturally  towards 
each  other,  drawn  together  by  an  approximate  equality  of 
age. 

To  him.,  as  to  every  other  man  who  met  her,  she  was  at 
once  a  revelation  and  an  enigma.  Slight  and  black-eyed, 
with  hair  that  reached  almost  to  her  knees  when  she  brushed 
it,  and  shone  with  the  blue  tinge  of  polished  steel,  she  re- 
minded him  of  nothing  so  much  as  a  spoilt  and  petted 
Persian  kitten.  Her  face  was  small  in  feature  and  con- 
stantly changing  in  expression,  with  eager  lips  slightly 
parted  in  a  mischievous  smile,  and  finely  cut  nose  ever 
ready  to  raise  itself  in  scorn  or  disapproval.  Scorn  was 
for  those  who  issued  orders  or  tried  to  make  her  walk  their 
road  instead  of  her  own,  foolish  old  women  who  reminded 
her  of  the  convenances,  or  fatuous,  unchastened  boys  who 
tried  to  engage  her  attention ;  disapproval  was  for  any  who 
declined  to  slip  into  the  place  allotted  them  in  her  private 
order  of  creation  or  were  devoid  of  every  quality  from 
which  amusement  could  be  extracted.  Denys  had  been 
within  sight  of  condemnation:  he  laughed  at  her,  teased 
her  and  refused  to  treat  her  seriously  or  as  anything  but 
a  sweet,  wilful  child.  Such  treatment  she  had  never  before 
tolerated,  and  the  exception  in  Denys'  favour  was  only  made 
in  consideration  of  compensating  advantages  to  be  derived 
from  bearing  with  his  raillery  and  avoiding  an  open  breach. 
She  found  he  could  talk  as  she  had  never  heard  anyone  talk 
before,  forgetful  of  himself  and  of  her,  like  one  inspired; 
so  she  met  his  teasing  with  a  smile  in  her  black,  laughing 
eyes,  arguing,  quarrelling  and  making  up  their  quarrels  a 
dozen  times  a  day. 

Denys  would  listen  delightedly  to  the  milk-soft,  West 
of  Ireland  voice  with  its  rapid,  torrential  utterance  and 
plashing  cascade  of  laughter.  In  Sheila  there  was  more 
untroubled,  radiant  happiness  than  in  any  other  girl  of  his 


16  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

meeting.  Nothing  ruffled  or  depressed  her  spirits,  every- 
thing was  a  source  of  enjoyment  to  her,  everyone  she  met 
a  fund  of  amusement.  She  seemed  to  drain  life  to  the 
last  sluggish  drop  of  happiness  and  to  look  with  unaffected 
wonder  on  all  who  failed  to  follow  her  example.  Her  com- 
pany for  the  last  five  days  had  been  deliciously  exhilarating : 
the  sunny  smile  and  babbling  tongue  made  him  forget  the 
health  he  had  been  nursing  in  Spain  and  the  work  which 
was  recalling  him  to  England:  they  had  been  living  in  a 
golden  age  of  their  own,  and  the  boundless  expanse  of 
blue  water  around  them  rendered  their  kingdom  inaccessible 
to  the  passions  and  injustices  and  cruelties  of  reality.  He 
would  be  sorry  when  the  voyage  ended;  yet  he  knew  that 
so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  sooner  it  ended  the  better. 
Sheila  was  coming  to  occupy  too  large  a  place  in  his 
thoughts,  and  the  plan  on  which  his  life  was  mapped  out 
admitted  of  no  interference  by  man  or  woman,  friend  or 
wife. 

Of  her  real  nature  he  knew  little  or  nothing.  A  five  days' 
friendship  in  the  unembarrassed,  confidential  atmosphere  of 
a  great  liner  had  told  him  her  age,  upbringing,  and  relations : 
they  had  found  friends  and  enemies  in  common.  She  was 
surprisingly  well  read  for  her  years,  shrewd  in  judgment 
and  tenacious  of  purpose.  Living  alone  with  her  grand- 
father since  the  death  of  her  parents,  her  mind  had  in  some 
ways  developed  prematurely;  in  character  the  same  in- 
fluence had  left  her  curiously  unformed.  Intolerant,  self- 
willed,  and  impetuous,  she  found  life  unendurable  when 
she  could  not  get  her  own  way,  and  in  the  course  of  shap- 
ing an  ill-contrived  world  to  her  own  standard  she  dis- 
played a  wholly  masculine  directness  and  self-confidence. 
Sir  William  idolised  her  and  made  no  attempt  to  moderate 
her  extravagances :  she  had  achieved  so  many  hair's-breadth 
escapes  that  he  had  full  faith  in  her  power  of  looking 
after  herself,  and  as  long  as  his  indulgence  left  her  so  sweet- 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  17 

tempered,  he  luxuriated  in  her  breathless,  exacting  tyranny. 
Denys  regarded  the  future  with  misgiving  and  tried  to 
probe  beneath  the  surface. 

The  laughing,  black  eyes  baffled  him.  She  gave  no  in- 
dication of  caring  for  anything  or  feeling  interest  in  any- 
thing save  in  so  far  as  it  afforded  a  temporary  distraction 
or  amusement :  and  she  was  apparently  without  preferences 
even  in  her  amusements.  He  could  discover  no  guiding 
principle  or  dominating  taste  beyond  a  frank  and  engaging 
love  of  mischief:  "I  shall  be  able  to  get  a  lot  of  fun  out 
of  you,"  was  the  phrase  which  expressed  her  highest  ap- 
proval of  anyone  she  met;  it  had  been  applied  to  him  the 
second  day  they  were  on  btfard  together,  and  he  had  done  his 
best  not  to  disappoint  her. 

"I  wish  you'd  say  something,"  she  began  plaintively, 
after  a  silence  which  for  her  was  long.  "For  your  own 
sake.  If  the  ship  went  down — you  know  they  do  some- 
times— you  wouldn't  like  to  think  that  poor  little  Sheila 
had  spent  her  last  moments  of  life  nursing  a  broken  ankle 
with  no  one  to  love  her  or  be  kind  to  her." 

"At  the  same  time,  if  we  are  to  be  drowned,  it  would  be 
very  consoling  to  reflect  that  I'd  retained  my  faculty  of 
smoking  right  up  to  the  last.  However,  we'll  assume  we 
aren't  going  to  die  just  at  present,  and  I'll  start  taking  care 
of  you.  To  begin  with,  you  mustn't  sit  about  in  that  thin 
dress  without  a  coat.  I'm  going  to  fetch  you  the  white, 
woolly  thing  that  you  think  sets  off  your  figure  so  well." 

"Well,  so  it  does." 

"I  know,  but  I'm  not  sure  you  ought  to  be  so  conscious 
of  it.  'Cabin  No.  118,  B.  deck,  hanging  up  on  the  right  as 
you  go  in ;  and  if  you  can't  find  it,  for  the  love  of  heaven 
don't  rummage/  Are  those  the  orders?" 

"They  are.    I  say,  you're  getting  awfully  useful." 

"Well,  when  I  meet  a  girl  on  board  and  she  can't  do  up 
her  dress,  or  tie  up  her  shoe-laces  or  face  the  gentlest  of 


1 8  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

gentle  rolls  in  the  Bay,  and  doesn't  bring  a  maid  to  help 
her  out  of  her  difficulties,  I  feel  we  men  have  to  show  what 
stuff  we're  made  of.  And  all  the  reward  we  get  for  our 
slaving  is  to  be  told  that  the  modern  young  man  is  the 
hardest,  coldest,  unkindest,  unfeelingest  brute  in  creation." 

"I  take  it  all  back:  there  are  moments  when  you  are 
perfectly  adorable." 

Denys  bowed  his  acknowledgments  and  ran  along  the 
boat  deck  to  the  companion  way.  Sheila  watched  him 
with  a  greater  interest  than  she  usually  permitted  herself 
when  young  men  hastened  to  do  her  bidding.  Denys 
amused  her:  he  was  so  old  in  manner  and  young  in  mind, 
so  clever  in  brain  and  simple  in  character,  so  reserved  in 
behaviour  and  so  quickly  aroused  when  properly  handled. 
She  knew  him  to  be  an  orphan  and  at  one  period  to  have 
been  a  Fellow  of  an  Oxford  college.  It  was  the  first 
time  such  combination  had  come  her  way,  and  she  was 
resolved  to  make  the  most  of  it.  There  might  be  some- 
thing in  him  to  interest  and  amuse  her :  at  the  worst,  when 
his  ingenuous,  shy  simplicity  began  to  pall,  she  could  look 
back  with  considerable  pleasure  to  the  days  of  their  home- 
coming. 

In  a  boat  peopled  with  returning  Colonials  and  bearded 
Scots  who  kicked  her  as  they  danced,  it  was  no  ordinary 
luck  to  discover  a  man  who  had  apparently  read  every  book 
that  had  ever  been  written,  and  could  talk  with  the  fresh- 
ness and  enthusiasm  of  a  schoolboy  who  has  forgotten  to 
be  self-conscious.  He  was  young,  too,  which  was  a  merit 
in  her  eyes — not  more  than  five  or  six  and  twenty — and  un- 
deniably presentable.  Her  eyes  followed  him  till  he  dis- 
appeared from  sight  down  the  companion-way.  He  was 
tall,  perhaps  six  feet  high,  though  an  habitual  stoop  would 
have  taken  away  several  inches  from  his  height,  had  it  not 
been  somewhat  accenuated  by  an  undue  leanness  of  body. 
The  face  was  thin  and  worn,  with  sharply  outlined  cfaeek 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  19 

and  jawbones,  and  a  pair  of  large,  deep-set  eyes  which 
afforded  a  dark  contrast  to  the  extreme  pallor  of  his  face. 
The  hair  was  light  brown  in  colour  and  brushed  back  from 
a  broad,  high  forehead.  He  was  in  every  way  a  creditable 
companion,  and  she  resolved  that  the  intimacy  must  be 
continued  after  their  arrival  in  England.  He  had  been 
absurdly  reticent  and  mistrustful  of  her:  she  had  been 
thwarted  at  every  turn  when  she  tried  to  get  him  to  talk 
about  himself. 

Left  to  herself  on  the  boat-deck,  she  rested  her  chin  on 
her  arm  and  knelt  leaning  against  the  rail  to  watch  the 
play  of  the  moonlight  on  the  water.  It  was  as  though  a 
mighty,  unseen  hand  were  pouring  a  silent  stream  of  quick- 
silver over  the  black  and  glistening  waves  that  lapped  the 
gleaming  sides  of  the  smoothly  gliding  vessel.  There  should 
have  been  a  gentle  splash  as  the  mercury  met  the  water: 
it  should  have  been  possible  to  watch  the  silver  drops  sink- 
ing gradually  from  sight  into  that  measureless  waste  of 
moving  blackness:  it  should  .  .  .  And  then  she  was  called 
from  her  reverie  by  the  sound  of  a  light  step  behind  her 
and  the  touch  of  a  hand  directing  her  arm  into  the  warm 
recesses  of  a  white,  knitted  coat. 

"Any  sisters,  Mr.  Play  fair?"  she  asked  as  he  buttoned 
the  coat  and  handed  her  a  mantilla. 

"Not  a  relation  in  the  whole  wide  world,  I'm  afraid." 

"You're  extraordinarily  well  broken." 

"It's  the  reaction  from  living  alone.  When  I  come  out 
of  hiding,  I  have  to  make  up  for  a  wasted  life  by  incon- 
veniencing myself  on  the  smallest  provocation.  Shall  I 
do  your  packing  for  you?" 

"It's  dong.    Why  didn't  you  offer  earlier  ?" 

"How  was  I  to  know?  You've  left  sufficient  things  lying 
about  the  floor  of  your  cabin  to  fill  a  fair-sized  ark." 

"Oh,  of  course  if  you're  going  to  be  rude  I  shall  go  and 
talk  to  Father  Time." 


20  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"No ;  don't  run  away !   Father  Time,  as  you  irreverently 

call  him,  is  talking  to  the  doctor  and  doesn't  want  you,  while 
j » 

The  antithesis  was  left  incomplete  as  he  found  his  pipe 
had  gone  out. 

"While  you  want  someone  to  talk  to  as  you  smoke  ?  And 
I'm  just  not  going  to.  Good-bye.  Are  you  coming  to 
call  .  .  .  ?  Oh,  mon  Dieu,  my  ankle !" 

She  had  risen  for  a  moment  but  immediately  sank  back 
on  to  the  seat.  "How  I  hate  everyone  on  this  boat !  When 
are  we  due  in?" 

"Midday  to-morrow;  that's  St.  Catherine's  lighthouse 
we're  passing  now.  Are  you  really  in  pain  ?" 

"No,  but  I  was  half  an  hour  ago  and  you  never  took  any 
notice.  All  right,  it's  too  late  now.  What  was  I  saying?  Oh, 
are  you  coming  to  call  on  us  in  town?" 

"Not  on  top  of  the  remark  that  you  hate  everybody  on  the 
boat." 

"I  wasn't  asking  you  on  my  account;  I  thought  Father 
Time  might  like  to  see  you." 

"We  shall  meet  twice  a  week  in  the  board-room  of  the 
Anglo-Hibernian." 

"Oh,  very  well,  then,  I'll  say  it.  Will  you  come  and  see 
me  ?  Cleveland  Row,  only  you  won't  remember  the  number. 
It's  in  the  telephone-book  and  there's  a  lift,  so  it  won't  be  any 
trouble." 

"I  might." 

"Might,  indeed?  You  may  be  very  clever,  and  you  may 
have  written  such  learned  books  that  no  ordinary,  healthy- 
minded  person  can  understand  them,  but  that  doesn't  entitle 
you  to  be  so  offhand  when  I  take  the  trouble  to  give  you  an 
invitation." 

"But— my  child " 

"That's  not  allowed." 

"You  are,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  and  of  the  world.    How- 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  21 

ever,  a  small  point.  What  I  was  going  to  say,  when  you 
interrupted  me,  was  that  I  would  come  with  much  pleasure 
if  I'm  allowed  to  stay  in  London." 

"But  you're  not — what's  the  word? — wanted,  are  you?" 

"Not  by  the  police,  but  there  are  certain  physicians  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Harley  Street  who  accept  large  fees 
for  the  privilege  of  ordering  me  out  of  England,  and  say- 
ing what  I  mustn't  eat  and  mustn't  drink  and  mustn't 
smoke." 

"You  poor  darling,  have  you  been  ill?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much.  Nothing  to  compare  with  your 
ankle,  for  instance." 

He  had  turned  the  conversation  from  the  subject  of  his 
own  health,  in  part  because  a  succession  of  illnesses  and 
long  years  of  invalidity  had  made  him  sensitive,  in  part 
because  the  mention  of  another's  troubles  revealed  a  new 
Sheila  to  him  and  made  him  self-conscious.  The  laughter 
had  died  in  her  eyes,  her  forehead  wrinkled  in  an  expression 
of  sympathy,  and  a  flash  of  white  showed  that  she  was  bit- 
ing her  lower  lip. 

"And  you  never  told  me!"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  gentle 
reproach  that  touched  and  embarrassed  him. 

"Other  people's  ailments  are  so  uninteresting,"  he  pro- 
tested 

"Not  to  me.  Poor  dears,  I  collect  them.  I've  never 
been  ill  for  a  single  day  in  all  my  life  .  .  .  " 

"Or  unhappy?" 

"Or  unhappy  either,  and  I  simply  can't  bear  to  see  people 
in  trouble.  That's  my  mission  in  life,  to  show  people  what 
a  wonderful  place  this  world  is  and  teach  them  to  be  happy." 

"The  Spinx  has  spoken." 

"Shall  I  show  you?" 

"Do  I  need  it?" 

"My  dear,  you  always  give  me  the  impression  of  being 
haunted." 


22  j      SHEILA  INTERVENES 

He  gazed  absently  at  her  for  a  moment  before  replying. 

"Perhaps  I  am." 

"But  what  have  you  done  ?"  she  asked  in  mock  terror. 

"Can't  you  be  haunted  by  what  you've  not  done?  Can't 
you  lie  and  dream  of  what  you  are  fated  to  do  and  then 
wake  to  find  yourself  not  strong  enough  to  do  it?  Don't 
you  know  the  old  nightmare  of  feeling  there  is  something 
you  have  to  do — you  can't  tell  what,  it  may  be  to  get  some- 
where or  find  something  or  warn  someone — and  all  the 
time  knowing  that  you  can't  get  it  done?  Your  feet  are 
clogged,  something  with  a  smiling,  sinister  face  is  catching 
you  up  and  at  the  end  ..." 

"You  wake  up  sobbing,  and  it  isn't  done !" 

"Generally." 

"Always." 

His  gaze  travelled  past  her  and  rested  on  the  moving 
lights  of  an  outward-bound  P.  and  O. 

"Sometimes  you  dream  the  dream  through  to  the  finish." 

"No." 

"Believe  me,  I  do.  Some  people  say  one  dream  merges 
in  another  so  that  you  only  end  it  by  waking  .  .  .  And 
some  say  no  one  ever  dreams  his  own  death.  Dying,  yes, 
and  usually  trembling  with  fear,  but  not  dead.  I  do.  I 
dream  my  dream  out,  and  then— quite  logically — I  dream 
myself  dead !" 

The  P.  and  O.  glided  past  them  and  he  turned  once  more 
to  face  her.  She  looked  curiously  at  the  thoughtful  eyes, 
proud  nose,  and  nervous  mouth,  and  then  asked  without 
apparent  interest: 

"And  the  dream  itself?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh,  "That  belongs  to 
another  world  where  not  even  you  are  admitted." 

"But  I  could  find  out,  so  why  not  tell  me?" 

"You  are  welcome  to  find  out — if  you  can  and  if  you 
think  it  worth  while.  At  present  I'm  regarded  as  sane  and 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  23 

harmless  while  I  live  in  your  unreal  world.  But  the  moment 
another  soul  entered  my  dream-world — the  only  real 
world  I  know — I  should  be  mocked  and  reviled,  probably 
incarcerated." 

Sheila  turned  up  the  collar  of  her  coat. 

"The  creature  has  its  aspirations,"  she  remarked  im- 
personally, "but  it's  so  self-conscious  that  it  pretends  the 
world  would  laugh  at  it  and  call  it  dreamer  if  it  took  the 
world  into  its  confidence." 

"That's  as  good  an  explanation  as  most  Look  here, 
you're  getting  cold;  we'd  better  move  down." 

Rising  up,  he  offered  her  his  hands.  She  took  them  and 
tried  to  stand,  but  the  sudden  pain  in  her  ankle  sent  a 
wave  of  colour  through  her  cheeks  and  she  lowered  herself 
once  more  on  to  the  seat. 

"Perfide  Albion !  it  does  hurt.  No,  there's  nothing  broken, 
but  I  must  rest  it  a  bit.  You  can  go  if  you're  tired  of  talk- 
ing to  me.  If  you're  still  strong  you  can  stay  and  help  me 
read  the  commination  service  over  the  Scotch.  They  eat 
haggis  and  call  it  food,  they  play  the  pipes  and  call  it  music, 
they  wear  a  tartan  and  call  it  art  or  clothing  or  anything 
but  damnable — Oh!  I'm  sorry,  but  they  do,  you  know,  so 
no  wonder  they  can't  dance." 

Denys  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  began  slowly 
to  refill  it. 

"Yet  they  have  their  good  points,  or  had.  No  country  has 
ever  produced  a  race  of  men  like  the  Jacobites.  Their 
romantic  heroism  and  splendid  self-sacrifice !  It's  the 
classic  instance,  I  suppose,  of  a  cause  being  unworthy  of 
the  men  who  die  for  it.  Or  a  sample  of  the  irony  of  the 
gods  .  .  .  How  often  in  history  do  you  find  an  army  and 
a  leader  or  cause  worthy  of  each  other?  Alexander  the 
Great?  Yes,  and  the  gods  struck  him  down  at  thirty-two. 
Julius  Caesar?  Too  dangerous — the  gods  grew  timid — he 
had  to  be  put  out  of  the  way.  Majhomet?  The  cause  wasn't 


24  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

worth  such  fighters  .  .  .  Napoleon?  Ah,  he  had  the 
finest  fighters  in  the  world,  but  they  were  still  no  match 
for  his  own  transcendent  genius.  Perhaps  it's  as  well; 
what  we  call  irony  the  gods  may  call  providence  ...  a 
wise  adjustment  of  checks  and  balances.  Had  Alexander 
lived,  had  Napoleon  been  worthily  supported,  the  face  of 
the  world  would  be  too  quickly  changed  ..." 

"Would  that  matter?" 

"There  would  be  no  lost  causes  left  to  fight  for." 

Sheila  lay  back  and  listened  hopefully,  watching  him  with 
half-closed  eyes.  A  little  well-timed  opposition,  a  chance 
question  or  patronising  display  of  interest,  was  sufficient  to 
loosen  his  tongue  and  unlock  a  heady,  bubbling  stream  of 
words  and  an  inexhaustible  flow  of  ideas. 

"Isn't  the  lost  cause  cult  out  of  date?"  she  asked  dis- 
paragingly. 

"Other  people's  ideals  always  are,"  he  answered  apolo- 
getically. "And  yet  ..." 

The  bait  was  taken,  as  she  had  made  him  take  it  when- 
ever she  found  herself  in  need  of  amusement.  He  had  been 
an  invaluable  relief  to  the  tedium  of  the  voyage.  A  hint  or 
a  challenge — and  he  would  begin  to  talk,  slowly,  deferential- 
ly feeling  his  way,  calm,  judicial  and  restrained.  Of  a 
sudden  the  dark  eyes  would  take  fire  and  the  thin  face  grow 
animated.  An  unexpected  avenue  of  thought  had  opened 
to  his  view  and  he  would  race  down  it,  dragging  her  in 
breathless  pursuit.  Whimsical  and  picturesque,  winged 
with  paradox  and  flashing  with  epigram,  the  ideas  crowded 
and  jostled  each  other  till  her  brain  grew  dizzy  with  sight 
of  the  fantastic  dream-figures  made  startlingly  real.  The 
soft,  eager  voice  rising  and  falling  in  musical  cadence  lost 
its  deliberate  Saxon  intonation  and  took  on  the  speed  and 
mellow  gentleness  of  the  West.  At  times  she  would  watch 
him  pause,  hesitate  as  the  possibilities  of  a  new  theory  un- 
folded themselves,  and  then,  piece  by  piece.,  arrange  the 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  25 

setting  of  the  tableau.  The  richness  and  strength  of  his 
mind  communicated  themselves  to  hers :  as  they  talked,  her 
own  brain  grew  suddenly  clearer,  bolder  and  more  penetrat- 
ing, she  moved  in  a  finer  air  and  felt  her  intellect  yielding 
him  of  its  best.  The  awakening  came  with  the  cruel  abrupt- 
ness of  a  broken  dream ;  her  mind  went  flat  like  the  slack 
string  of  a  violin,  and  the  reaction  made  her  half  afraid  of 
venturing  again  into  the  charmed  circle.  But  the  fear  was 
quickly  overcome  by  the  physical  fascination  of  surrender: 
she  enjoyed  the  sensation  of  growing  powerless,  abandoning 
herself  to  the  hypnotic  persuasion  of  that  silvery  voice,  and 
following  him  in  desperate  pursuit  of  a  shimmering,  elusive 
will-o'-the-wisp. 

"You've  left  out  England,"  she  reminded  him  when  at 
last  the  voice  died  away  and  he  allowed  her  to  return  to 
drab  reality.  Taking  up  her  challenge  he  had  defended 
lost  causes  as  the  only  things  for  which  a  man  should  lay 
down  his  life.  The  Moors  in  Spain  and  Temporal  Power 
in  Italy  had  sheltered  themselves  behind  his"  broad  shield : 
he  had  been  a  Tolstoian  in  Russia,  a  Jacobite  in  Scotland, 
and  a  Bonapartist  in  France. 

"Combine  the  last  two,"  he  told  her.  "Take  a  man  whose 
grandfather  was  out  in  the  '15,  his  father  in  the  '45.  Con- 
fiscate his  lands  and  houses,  put  a  price  on  his  head,  brand 
him  as  an  alien  rebel.  Then  let  him  take  stock  of  the 
people  who  so  brand  him :  he  is  an  alien  and  a  rebel  because 
he  cannot  blind  himself  to  the  dull  stupidity  of  his  rulers. 
They  are  unfit  to  rule — and  he  knows  his  own  powers. 
Think  of  young  Napoleon  Bonaparte  in  Corsica,  watching 
the  house  of  Bourbon  drive  France  into  revolution:  a  dis- 
possessed rebel,  poor  and  proud,  nothing  to  lose,  every- 
thing to  gain.  The  governing  classes  of  England  with  their 
colossal  stupidity  and  conceit,  their  genius  for  misgovern- 
ment,  their  stupendous,  brutal  want  of  sympathv  and  imag- 
ination .  .  .  Isn't  there  romance  in  the  thought  of  dis- 


26  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

turbing  their  fat  placidity,  meting  out  to  them  the  same 
uncomprehending  stubbornness  and  rigor  that  they  meted 
out  to  America  and  Ireland?  .  .  .  What  a  vision  of  red, 
dripping  vengeance !  If  you  could  enter  upon  politics  .  .  ." 

"Wouldn't  I  storm  the  Bastille?" 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no!  You  can  loathe  the  crass,  pompous, 
governing  classes  without  wanting  to  supersede  them  with 
the  equally  crass  and  far  more  bigoted  democracy.  Punish- 
ment for  punishment's  sake  is  all  I  ask;  I'm  not  interested 
in  the  reconstruction  of  society." 

"But  .  .  .  poor  old  England!  What  has  she  done  to 
deserve  such  a  fate?" 

"She's  blundered  into  one  of  the  most  colossal  empires 
in  history.  She  governs  it  without  sympathy,  insight, 
heart  or  understanding.  That  is  not  the  way  to  govern 
men  and  women  of  tender  flesh  and  sensitive  nerves  .  .  . 
She  cannot  comprehend  an  alien  ideal  or  an  unfamiliar 
point  of  view.  And  providence  always  punishes  people 
who  slight  the  ideals  of  others.  Poor  providence!  Some- 
times I  think  she  has  punished  the  English  in  advance  by 
giving  them  the  whole  world  and  taking  away  their  souls, 
but  it's  poor  satisfaction  sending  a  man  to  hell  if  he's  toq 
gross  and  insensible  to  appreciate  he's  been  sent  there." 

Sheila  wrinkled  her  forehead  in  thought. 

"Not  good,  that  last,"  she  remarked  critically. 

"What's  not  good?" 

"The  tirade  against  England.  It's  unconvincing.  Stupid, 
yes,  they  are  stupid  and  they  do  tread  on  people's  toes,  but 
not  very  hard.  They  rub  along  comfortably  enough ;  every- 
body complains  a  little  but  nobody  very  much." 

"I  postulated  a  man  with  a  fairly  substantial  grievance. 
Most  people  are  too  lazy  and  too  wanting  in  pride  to  nurse 
a  just  resentment ;  they  allow  themselves  to  be  misgoverned 
by  an  incompetent  aristocracy  and  an  inherently  vulgar 
middle  class  because  it's  too  much  trouble  to  rise  up  and 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  27 

assert  themselves.  But  if  you  could  find  a  man  too  proud 
and  vengeful  to  submit,  if  he  and  his  fathers  had  been  in 
revolt  for  generations,  if  their  lands  and  houses  had 
dwindled  and  disappeared  as  with  the  finer  of  the  Jacobites, 
if  at  last  one  was  left  friendless,  homeless,  poor,  to  earn  a 
livelihood  as  best  he  might  ..." 

"It's  an  awful  lot  of  'ifs,' "  interposed  Sheila. 

"I  suppose  it  is."  The  interruption  was  timely:  he  had 
been  growing  excited  and  rhetorical ;  her  critical,  deliberate 
tone  quieted  him.  "Still,  it  would  brighten  up  politics, 
wouldn't  it?  And  they're  deplorably  dull  at  present." 

"Why  don't  you  .  .  .  Hullo,  keep  quite  quiet,  here 
come  Father  Time  and  the  doctor.  Do  we  want  to  be 
interrupted  ?" 

"I  think  not:  it's  our  last  evening  together." 

"Pretty  speech!"  she  answered  in  a  mocking  whisper. 
"All  right,  they're  behind  the  back  funnel ;  they  can't  hear. 
All  the  same,  I  expect  we  shall  have  them  round  as  soon 
as  they  get  to  the  end,  and  I'm  too  lame  to  run  away  and 
hide." 

Sir  William  and  Dr.  Gaisford  had  reached  the  boat  deck 
by  a  ladder  on  the  starboard  side.  After  listening  for  a 
moment  to  the  voices  behind  the  engine-room  ventilator 
they  had  walked  slowly  forward  and  were  standing  at  the 
extreme  end  of  the  deck,  leaning  against  the  rail  and 
watching  the  second  class  passengers  walking  swiftly  arm- 
in-arm  in  belated  penance  for  having  taken  no  exercise 
earlier  in  the  day. 

"Did  you  see  who  it  was  my  granddaughter  was  talking 
to?  An  Irishman,  by  the  voice."  Sir  William  resembled 
Sheila  in  nothing  but  a  mischievous  disposition  and  a  re- 
fusal to  grow  old.  At  seventy-three  he  was  as  slim  and 
upright  as  many  men  half  his  age :  the  white  hair  was  belied 
by  a  vivacious  tongue  and  twinkling  eye ;  and  an  unerring 
memory  of  men  met  and  books  read  during  fifty  teeming 


28  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

years  was  the  sole  reminder  of  the  generation  to  which  he 
belonged.  In  politics,  diplomacy,  literature,  and  finance  he 
passed  for  a  brilliant  amateur,  and  admiring  friends  whis- 
pered to  each  other  what  heights  he  might  have  attained, 
had  he  thrown  a  modicum  of  enthusiasm  into  anything  he 
undertook.  He  was  himself  content  with  a  humbler  aim: 
it  was  the  men  who  interested  him  in  politics,  not  their 
measures  or  principles.  He  was  happy  to  add  patiently  to 
a  growing  knowledge  of  human  nature,  to  collect  scandal 
and  indulge  a  passion  for  intrigue,  and  to  watch  the  eternal 
spectacle  of  savage  man  reconciling  himself  to  a  complex 
civilisation.  His  abilities  were  higher  than  his  powers  of 
application:  he  described  himself  as  "capax  imperii  quia 
nunquam  imperaverat." 

"It  was  the  same  man  that  she's  been  talking  to  ever 
since  I  brought  him  on  board,"  said  Dr.  Gaisford  with  a 
smile. 

"Denys  ?    Oh  no !  it  wasn't  his  voice." 

"But  I  distinctly  saw  him." 

"Extraordinary.  Perfectly  extraordinary."  Sir  William 
stood  facing  out  to  sea,  eyes  closed  and  hands  locked  be- 
hind his  back.  "It'll  come  back  to  me  in  a  minute.  The 
voice,  I  mean.  Someone  I  knew  at  Trinity.  I  can't  have 
known  him  very  well,  because  the  face  is  quite  lost.  And 
I  can't  get  the  name.  But  that  brogue  and  the — the  won- 
derful timbre  and  melody  of  the  voice,  I've  heard  'em  some- 
where. You're  sure  it  was  Denys?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  the  doctor,  with  stout  conviction.  "I 
know  that  voice.  Whenever  he  gets  excited  he  talks  like 
that;  all  the  English  reserve  is  only  skin-deep.  You  must 
have  heard  him  before." 

"I  only  see  him  at  board  meetings,  and  there  he's  a  model 
of  solid,  unemotional  English  decorum.  Poor  boy.  I'm  sure 
he  hates  it,  he's  too  young  and  far  too  clever  to  waste  his 
time  in  an  insurance  office.  D'you  read  his  books?  Well, 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  29 

they're  out  of  the  ordinary  and  rather  wonderful  for  a 
man  of  his  age.  He  ought  to  have  kept  on  in  the  same 
vein.  I  never  knew  why  he  gave  up  his  Fellowship." 

"Money,  I  suppose.    And  Oxford  offered  no  future." 

Sir  William  buttoned  his  overcoat. 

"Shall  we  move  on?  It's  cold  standing  about.  I  must 
see  if  I  can't  find  him  a  berth  that  '11  give  better  scope  for 
his  abilities.  He  ought  to  be  in  the  House.  He  is  break- 
ing his  heart  where  he  is,  and  if  we  don't  get  him,  the 
other  side  will.  We  want  fresh  blood  and  new  ideas.  I 
despair  of  our  present  defenders.  The  Labour  outlook 
makes  me  very  uncomfortable :  we  don't  seem  able  to  do 
anything  to  attract  Labour.  We  want  another  Randolph." 

"And  where  you'll  get  him  I  don't  know." 

"Nor  do  I,  but  we  mustn't  refuse  the  common  lamp  be- 
cause we  can't  get  a  star  to  light  us  on  our  way.  Denys 
is  a  man  of  ideas  and  personality;  he  mustn't  be 
wasted." 

Continuing  in  their  walk  they  came  up  to  the  seat  where 
Sheila  and  Denys  were  sitting.  Sir  William  found  himself 
a  place  between  them  while  the  doctor  lowered  his  burly 
frame  on  to  the  deck  and  sat  clasping  his  knees  and  sucking 
contentedly  at  an  old  briar.  A  grizzled,  portly  bachelor  of 
five-and- forty  with  an  extensive  general  practice  among 
hypochondriacs  who  paid  him  large  fees,  Gaisford  had  a 
passion  for  youthful  society  and  seldom  allowed  a  week  to 
slip  by  without  a  dinner  party  at  which  the  maximum  age 
was  twenty-eight  or  thirty.  A  box  at  Co  vent  Garden  during 
the  season  gave  him  an  excuse  for  a  succession  of  small 
gatherings  for  supper,  and  about  every  other  year  his  name 
figured  in  The  Times  as  one  of  the  ball-giving  hosts  at  the 
Empire  Hotel.  Sheila  had  already  been  invited  to  arrange 
the  details  of  a  Christmas  Eve  party  seven  months  ahead. 
As  she  had  found  time  before  they  had  been  on  board  to- 
gether a  couple  of  hours  to  criticise  his  clothes,  recommend 


30  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

the  use  of  a  safety  razor  and  disapprove  of  the  tobacco  he 
smoked,  he  felt  it  would  be  easier  to  retire  from  the  fray 
and  leave  responsibility  for  the  success  of  his  party  on  her 
capable  little  shoulders. 

"Broken,"  she  remarked  wearily,  extending  the  injured 
ankle  in  his  direction. 

"I'm  off  duty,"  said  Gaisford  after  a  cursory  glance. 
"And  it  isn't  even  swollen." 

"Been  fighting?"    asked  Sir  William. 

"For  a  wonder,  no,"  said  Denys.  "And  it's  the  more  re- 
markable because  we've  been  talking  politics." 

Sir  William  felt  in  his  pocket  for  a  cigarette  case. 

"Where's  the  wild  Irishman?"  he  asked. 

"What  wild  Irishman  ?"  said  Sheila. 

"The  man  who  was  talking  when  the  doctor  and  I  came 
up  here." 

"Oh,  it  was  only  that,"  said  Sheila,  pointing  a  scornful 
finger  at  Denys.  "He  always  gets  like  that  when  he's  ex- 
cited. I  believe  he  does  it  on  purpose,  because  he  knows 
it  makes  me  homesick  for  Ireland." 

"It  made  me  feel  extraordinarily  old,"  began  her  grand- 
father. 

"Well,  what  about  me?  You  only  had  thirty  seconds  of 
it." 

"I  wasn't  meaning  that,  but  it  recalled  a  voice  I  used  to 
know  when  I  was  quite  a  boy  in  Dublin.  It  must  have 
been  someone  I  met  at  one  of  the  debating  societies:  I 
don't  remember  his  name  or  his  personal  appearance  or 
anything  about  him  except  the  voice.  And  I  haven't  heard 
that  for  more  than  fifty  years.  It's  very  odd,  gave  me 
quite  a  turn.  The  doctor  and  I  were  talking  Trinity  shop, 
I'd  completely  forgotten  this  fellow's  existence,  then  we 
came  up  here  and  we  heard  a  voice  that  might  have  come 
from  another  world." 

"Now  then,  Denys,"  said  the  doctor,  "you're  found  in 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  31 

suspicious  circumstances  in  possession  of  someone  else's 
voice.  How  did  you  come  by  it?" 

"Think  carefully  over  your  previous  reincarnations  be- 
fore you  perjure  yourself,"  said  Sheila  warningly. 

"Didn't  even  know  I  had  it,"  said  Denys.  "I  thought  I 
was  talking  normally." 

"My  dear,  you  never  talk  normally,"  said  Sheila.  "You 
don't  know  how  to.  However,  that's  a  side  issue.  It  must 
have  been  a  relation.  Ancestors  forward!  Were  any  of 
you  ever  at  Trinity?" 

"My  father  was." 

Gaisford  shook  his  head.  "Too  young.  I  was  up  with 
him.  What  about  a  grandfather?" 

Denys  hesitated  until  the  doctor  thought  his  question  had 
not  been  heard. 

"Grandfathers  forward,"  said  Sheila  impatiently. 

"My  grandfather  was  there,  too,"  said  Denys  quietly,  "but 
he  must  have  been  after  you,  Sir  William.  Two  or  three 
years,  I  imagine." 

"We  may  have  overlapped  and  I  may  have  met  him  with- 
out remembering  anything  about  him.  I  certainly  don't  re- 
member a  Playf air ;  but  then  you  don't  remember  the  names 
of  people  who  weren't  your  own  exact  contemporaries  un- 
less for  some  reason  they  were  intimate  friends  of  yours. 
Well  it  isn't  worth  bothering  our  heads  about.  What  hap- 
pened to  the  grandfather — did  he  do  anything  much?" 

"No.  He  just  married  and  lived  at  home  in  the  King's 
County  .  .  .  till  his  death." 

"What  part  of  the  King's  County?"  asked  Gaisford  cas- 
ually. 

"Dunross  Castle."  The  answer  was  given  almost  maud- 
ibly  and  Sheila  turned  in  surprise  to  find  him  sitting  with 
downcast  eyes,  fidgeting  nervously  with  the  mouthpiece 
of  his  pipe.  An  uncomfortable  silence  followed,  which 
was  broken  by  Sir  William  ostentatiously  looking  at  his 


32  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

watch  and  commenting  on  the  speed  of  the  boat.  Denys 
looked  at  his  own  watch  and  announced  that  he  must  go 
and  pack. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  child?"  asked  Sheila  when 
he  was  out  of  earshot. 

Sir  William  spread  out  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  pro- 
test. "Gaisford,  Gaisford,  why  didn't  you  stop  me?  I 
wouldn't  have  had  such  a  thing  happen  for  a  thousand 
pounds." 

"But  what's  happened?"  asked  the  doctor  in  perplexity. 

"Play fair  of  Dunross?  The  Warrington  case?  You 
must  have  heard  of  the  Warrington  case." 

"That  was  Play  fair?" 

Sir  William  nodded  grimly.  "That  boy's  as  sensitive  as 
a  girl.  He'll  never  forgive  me." 

Sheila  wriggled  herself  impatiently  forward;  she  had 
dropped  out  of  the  conversational  firing-line  for  a  full  two 
minutes. 

"Explain,  please,  Father  Time." 

"Explain  what,  my  dear?" 

"Oh,  Dunross  Costle,  Playfair  of  Dunross,  the  Warring- 
ton  case." 

Sir  William  hesitated  evasively. 

"Dunross  Castle  was  where  the  Playfairs  used  to  live," 
he  began  slowly. 

"Oh  yes !  and  the  Playfairs  of  Dunross  were  the  people 
who  used  to  live  at  Dunross  Castle.  An  archdeacon  is  a 
person  who  performs  archidiaconal  functions,  and  an  arch- 
idiaconal  function  is  what  an  archdeacon  performs.  Give 
me  credit  for  a  little  intelligence — I  mean,  just  enough  to 
appreciate  when  you're  trying  to  keep  something  from  me." 

"Ask  and  it  shall  be  given  unto  you,  seek  and  ye  shall 
find,"  said  her  grandfather  humbly.  "What  do  you  want 
me  to  tell  you?" 

"Well,  the  Warrington  case." 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  33 

"Quite  seriously,  I  shouldn't  press  the  point,"  said  Gais- 
ford.  "There  are  many  things  in  this  world  which  it's  more 
comfortable  not  to  know." 

"Oh,  you  dears!"  Sheila  smiled  sunnily  at  them.  "Do 
you  think  I'm  likely  to  get  any  less  curious  when  you 
both  become  so  pontifical  and  involved.  Be  brave  and  have 
it  out.  I'm  lame  and  I  don't  want  to  have  to  ask  that 
boy  what  the  Warrington  case  was." 

"For  heaven's  sake,  don't  do  that !"  exclaimed  the  doctor. 

'Well?" 

Sir  William  grasped  the  nettle. 

"You'll  find  it  all  at  home,  Sheila.  Look  out  'Warring- 
ton*  in  the  'Celebrated  Irish  Trials'  series.  He  was  an 
agitator  who  agitated  himself  and  a  large  number  of  in- 
offensive peasants  into  the  dock  and  then  turned  informer. 
He  got  off,  but  one  or  two  of  his  victims  had  to  pay 
the  penalty.  Play  fair  of  Dunross  took  it  upon  himself 
to  mete  out  justice,  there  was  a  duel,  the  last  political  duel 
in  English  history,  and  Warrington  was  shot.  Playfair 
gave  himself  up  to  justice  and — well,  they  hanged  him. 
I  was  at  the  Embassy  in  Vienna  at  the  time,  so  the  news 
only  reached  me  in  a  scrappy  state,  but  I  remember  feeling 
ran  extraordinarily  high.  Playfair  was  the  popular  martyr 
and  no  words  were  bad  enough  for  the  government  which 
had  done  him  to  death.  They  used  to  sing  popular  bal- 
lads in  his  honour — that  was  in  the  early  sixties — then 
came  the  Phoenix  Park  murders  in  '82  and  the  whole  epi- 
sode was  thrown  into  shadow.  And  this  boy's  his  grand- 
son! I  didn't  even  know  the  first  man  had  married." 

"I  knew  the  son,"  said  Gaisford.  "Of  course  I  never 
knew  he  was  the  son,  because  Dunross  was  the  only  link 
and  he  wasn't  living  there  when  I  knew  him." 

"What  happened  to  him?" 

Gaisford  tapped  his  forehead.  "A  bit  of  a  kink.  He 
was  one  of  the  men  who  fought  for  the  Boers  in  South 


34  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Africa.      Killed    in    the    first    six    months    of    the    war." 

"And  what  happened  to  Dunross?" 

Sheila  had  been  listening,  silent  and  fascinated.  She 
could  not  help  recalling  Denys'  imaginary  Jacobite  family : 
one  generation  out  in  the  '15,  another  in  the  '45,  rebels 
and  aliens. 

"All  the  Irish  property  was  sold  by  this  boy's  father, 
the  man  I  used  to  know." 

Sheila  nodded:  "Lands  and  houses  fading  and  disap- 
pearing, as  with  the  finer  of  the  Jacobites." 

"They  were  rather  an  old  family,"  said  Sir  William,  "and 
this  is  the  last  survivor.  Well,  it's  a  grisly  business  and 
happily  it  hasn't  occurred  to  anyone  else  to  connect  the 
two  names.  Sheila,  you'll  have  to  make  my  peace  with 
that  boy.  I  don't  want  to  lose  his  friendship;  he's  too 
valuable." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  ?"  she  asked.i  getting 
up  and  preparing  to  descend  to  her  cabin. 

"I  want  to  persuade  him  to  take  an  interest  in  politics. 
He  is  far  better  suited  for  them  than  for  his  present  work." 

"Poor  and  proud,  earning  a  livelihood  as  best  he  may, 
everything  to  win,  nothing  to  lose,  watching  the  obese, 
placid,  governing  classes  who  branded  him  and  his  as 
alien  rebels."  Sheila  remembered  the  words  and  the  pas- 
sion with  which  they  had  been  uttered. 

"Apart  from  everything  else — the  things  you  don't  under- 
stand, I  mean,"  she  said,  "you  must  leave  him  to  me.  It 
won't  do  to  make  a  politician  of  him." 

"Why  not?"  asked  her  grandfather  as  he  and  the  doc- 
tor prepared  to  follow  her. 

"He's  much  too  good  looking,  for  one  thing." 


CHAPTER  II 

'A   HUNGER   STRIKE  IN   BERKELEY   SQUARE 

"Opposite  to  exercise  is  idleness  (the  badge  of  gentry)  or  want  of 
exercise,   the  nurse   of   naughtiness,   stepmother   of   discipline,   the 
chief  author  of  all  mischief,  one  of  the  seven  deadly  sins,  .  .  .  the 
devil's  cushion,  as  Gualter  calls  it,  his  pillow  and  chief  reposal." 
BURTON:  "ANATOMY  OF  MELANCHOLY." 

"LET'S  turn  back  and  have  tea  at  home,"  said  Sheila  as 
her  grandfather's  car  swept  into  Berkeley  Square. 

"My  dear,  it  was  your  own  suggestion  that  we  should 
call,  and  I've  promised  to  leave  cards  for  Denys." 

"I  know,  but  Aunt  Margaret  always  disapproves  of  me 
so  openly.  For  a  busy  woman  it's  quite  wonderful  how 
much  time  she  devotes  to  my  shortcomings." 

"She's  never  forgiven  me  for  not  entrusting  you  to  her 
tender  mercies." 

"I'd  never  have  forgiven  you  if  you  had.  When  I  see 
the  mess  she's  made  of  poor  old  Daphne  .  .  .  Hang  it 
all  .  .  .  !" 

"Sheila!" 

"Well,  what's  wrong?  Hang  it  all,  hang  it  all,  hang  it 
all !  There  now,  you've  made  me  forget  what  I  was  going 
to  say.  Oh,  I  know.  Hang  it  all — I've  said  it  again — 
I  do  manage  to  get  some  fun  out  of  life,  which  is  more 
than  Daphne  ever  does." 

"Then  you've  not  got  Maurice  Weybrook  to  look  for- 
ward to  as  a  husband!" 

"That's  true !" 

Sheila  closed  her  lips  obstinately  and  lay  back  while  the 

35 


3'6  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

car  slowed  down  and  the  footman  enquired  if  her  aunt 
were  at  home.  Three  weeks  had  passed  since  their  return 
to  England,  and  they  were  calling  to  pay  their  respects 
after  a  ball  given  by  the  Countess  of  Parkstone  on  behalf 
of  her  daughter  Daphne  the  previous  week.  That,  at 
least,  was  the  ostensible  reason,  but  Sheila  was  never  at 
pains  to  expose  the  whole  of  her  hand.  She  had  met 
Denys  at  her  aunt's  ball  and  they  had  talked  pleasantly 
together  without  reference  to  her  grandfather's  unhappy 
mention  of  Dunross  Castle.  Sheila  had  fished  assiduously. 
She  was  trying  to  discover  how  far  he  had  been  speaking 
his  own  thoughts,  how  far  suggesting  a  possible  dramatic 
point  of  view,  in  his  picture  of  an  impoverished  outcast 
awaiting  the  opportunity  of  revenging  himself  on  a  society 
that  had  already  cost  him  his  inheritance  and  the  lives 
of  his  two  predecessors.  The  lounge  of  the  Ritz  was  an 
unsympathetic  milieu,  her  fishing  had  gone  unrewarded. 
Denys  had  been  tired,  matter-of-fact,  and  unimaginative; 
she  had  quite  failed  to  induce  the  expression  of  dreamy 
unconsciousness  in  his  eyes,  to  unlock  the  stream  of  magic 
language  or  awaken  the  music  of  his  changing,  mellifluous 
voice.  Already  the  work  he  had  been  doing  since  his  re- 
turn was  telling  on  him,  and  she  had  reminded  her  grand- 
father of  his  proposal  to  find  some  more  congenial  and 
less  exacting  form  of  labour  for  her  friend.  Another 
motive  of  their  present  call  was  the  desire  to  find  if  Lord 
Parkstone  in  his  semi-public  capacity  knew  of  a  suitable 
opening. 

Foiled  at  first-hand,  Sheila  had  turned  to  secondary  au- 
thorities. The  Warrington  case  in  the  "Celebrated  Irish 
Trials"  made  sorry  reading:  written  without  enthusiasm 
and  from  a  strongly  English  standpoint,  it  made  a  fantastic, 
hot-headed,  hare-brained  figure  of  Playfair,  without  any 
appeal  to  generosity,  romance,  or  sympathy.  She  read  one 
page  in  three  and  was  glad  when  the  book  ended.  A 


A  HUNGER-STRIKE  37, 

doctrinaire  Englishman  trying  to  ride  the  whirlwind  of 
agrarian  discontent;  a  spluttering  "Fair  Rent"  outburst; 
an  eviction;  the  death  of  the  evicting  landlord,  Plunket, 
sniped  from  an  upper  window  of  the  house  where  War- 
rington  and  his  victims  lay  barred,  bidding  defiance  to  the 
evictors;  the  trial  of  Warrington  and  his  followers  for 
murder.  There  was  a  single  dramatic  moment  in  the  next 
chapter  when  Warrington  turned  Queen's  Evidence  and 
saved  his  skin  at  the  expense  of  his  fellows.  Then  pages 
on  pages  of  the  summing-up,  given  verbatim,  then  the  sen- 
tences, then  the  executions. 

Sheila  turned  on  impatiently  to  the  time  after  the  trial 
when  Warrington  went  about  Dublin  under  police  escort, 
and  was  hissed  and  stoned  in  the  streets  by  the  mob. 
One  night  he  slipped  his  guard  and  appeared  in  the  Merrion 
Square  Club,  where  he  met  Playfair  and  was  told  that 
the  committee  was  sitting  upstairs  to  decide  whether  he 
should  be  expelled  from  the  club  or  requested  to  resign, 
and  that  in  the  meantime  he  had  thirty  seconds  to  get 
away  before  he  was  flogged  out  with  a  horse- whip.  War- 
rington produced  a  revolver,  Playfair  twisted  it  out  of 
his  hand,  cut  him  across  the  face  with  a  paper-knife  and 
offered  him  the  alternative  of  fighting  or  being  thrown 
to  his  friends  in  the  street.  That  night  they  drove  out 
of  Dublin  with  two  young  barristers  to  second  them.  War- 
rington missed.,  and  hurled  the  revolver  at  his  opponent : 
Playfair  contemptuously  let  it  hurtle  past  him  and  then 
shot  his  man  through  the  head.  By  daybreak  the  sec- 
onds had  driven  off  to  Kingston  and  Playfair  had  given 
himself  up  to  justice.  Then  once  more  the  trial,  the  wear- 
isome speeches  and  summing-up,  the  petition  and  demon- 
strations, the  end.  With  a  little  imagination,  the  story 
might  have  made  dramatic  reading:  in  its  present  form 
it  offered  very  slight  excuse  for  fighting  and  dying 
in  the  ranks  of  the  Queen's  enemies,  or  talking — save 


38  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

i 

for  effect — of  the  "vision  of  red,  dripping  vengeance." 

"Her  ladyship  is  at  home." 

The  sound  of  the  footman's  voice  recalled  Sheila  from 
the  forgotten  passions  of  Irish  history,  and  reminded  her 
that  she  was  in  search  of  a  sinecure  for  an  agreeable  but 
delicate  young  man  who  might  be  useful  in  other  ways, 
and  was  in  any  case  worth  cultivating  for  the  delight  of  his 
society  and  appearance. 

"Aunt  Margaret  always  is  at  home,"  she  grumbled  into 
her  grandfather's  ear  as  he  helped  her  to  descend.  "It 
ought  to  be  checked.  Look  here,  you're  not  to  go  off 
and  talk  politics  with  Uncle  Herbert  and  leave  me  with 
the  dragon.  She'll  eat  me  one  of  these  days,  I  know  she 
will." 

"Not  now ;  she's  had  her  lesson.  The  Countess  of  Park- 
stone  swallowed  plain  Miss  Margaret  Farling  in  one  gulp 
and  her  digestive  organs  have  never  recovered." 

Sir  William's  visits  to  his  daughter  were  conducted  in 
an  atmosphere  of  mutual  disapproval.  Lady  Parkstone 
had  strong  views  on  most  subjects  and  particularly  on 
the  subject  of  her  own  infallibility.  She  believed  in  bring- 
ing up  her  only  daughter  on  the  lines  of  what  she  fancied 
to  have  been  her  own  education,  and  this  involved  a  rigor- 
ous censorship  of  the  books  Lady  Daphne  read,  the  plays 
she  saw,  and  the  men  and  women  she  met.  In  Berkeley 
Square  and  at  Parkstone  Manor  there  was  usually  to  be 
found  a  small  and  eminently  respectable  collection  of  peo- 
ple whom  the  graceless  Daphne  described  as  bores.  In 
the  autumn  they  shot  and  talked  of  their  shooting,  in  the 
winter  they  hunted  and  talked  of  their  hunting,  in  the 
spring  they  moved  en  bloc  to  London  and  talked  vaguely 
of  the  Season.  Their  faith  was  of  the  Established  Church, 
their  politics  of  a  certain  crusted  Toryism  in  which  the 
proprietorship  of  large  landed  estates  was  the  first  article 
of  belief.  They  seldom  surrendered  themselves  to  polit- 


A  HUNGER-STRIKE  39 

ical  discussion,  because  they  were  all  agreed  beforehand, 
and  conversation  languishes  when  all  the  speakers  are  on 
one  side;  it  is  true  that  they  devoted  a  portion  of  each 
day  to  the  anathematisation  of  their  opponents;  but  as 
these  opponents  were  seldom  if  ever  admitted  to  speak  in 
their  own  defence,  invective  flagged  for  want  of  stimulus. 

Daphne  sometimes  wondered  why  it  was  necessary  to 
fill  the  house  with  so  many  people  of  exactly  the  same 
complexion  of  mind  when  one  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  typify  that  particular  form  of  life  and  that  particular 
school  of  thought.  She  found  it  prudent,  however,  not 
to  express  her  wonder  in  words,  and  contented  herself 
with  a  vague  longing  to  meet  people  with  other  ideas, 
people  who  worked  more  and  killed  less,  people  who  wrote 
the  numerous  books  she  was  forbidden  to  read,  the  reck- 
less incendiaries  who  voted  the  wrong  way  at  General 
Elections,  people  of  any  kind  who  differed  in  any  particu- 
lar from  those  she  met  under  her  mother's  roof. 

Sir  William  from  time  to  time  charged  his  daughter  with 
bringing  Lady  Daphne  up  in  a  world  of  narrowness  and 
unreality  for  which  the  England  of  Jane  Austen's  day 
alone  furnished  a  parallel.  He  even  took  the  drastic  step 
of  inviting  Daphne  to  spend  the  winter  with  him  when 
her  parents  were  abroad,  and  introducing  her  to  the  un- 
rivalled collection  of  journalists,  barristers,  Labour  lead- 
ers, Russian  nihilists.,  university  fellows,  social  workers, 
authors,  actors,  dreamers  and  poets  which  he  had  amassed 
in  the  course  of  a  long  and  enquiring  lifetime. 

It  had  been  a  period  of  unbroken  bliss  for  Daphne,  but 
the  experiment  was  not  repeated,  and  Lady  Parkstone  never 
tired  of  laying  at  her  father's  door  Lady  Daphne's  way- 
wardness and  dissatisfaction  with  the  Berkeley  Square 
existence.  She  went  further  and  carried  the  war  into 
the  enemy's  camp  by  publicly  disapproving  of  Sir  William's 
treatment  of  his  grand-daughter  Sheila.  It  was  intimated 


40  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

that  as  Sheila  had  no  parents  of  her  own,  her  aunt  should 
be  the  sole  fount  of  authority  and  counsel.  Sir  William 
ventured  the  paradox  that  parents  should  only  be  seen 
on  the  strongest  provocation,  and  never  heard.  As  the 
meaning  of  the  apothegm  was  not  altogether  clear  to  his 
daughter,  he  added  that  he  would  watch  her  success  with 
Daphne  before  entrusting  Sheila  to  her  care.  The  risk 
of  a  lasting  breach  between  Lady  Parkstone  and  her  father 
was  only  averted  by  the  fact  that  he  and  Lord  Parkstone 
entertained  a  genuine  liking  and  admiration  for  each  other, 
while  Daphne  idolised  the  man  who  alone  of  her  relations 
sympathised  with  her  desire  to  take  wing  and  see  other 
aspects  of  the  world  than  those  which  were  visible  from 
the  prim  and  restricted  windows  of  her  mother's  boudoir. 

The  drawing-room  was  thrown  into  semi-darkness  by 
long,  green  blinds  outside  the  windows,  and  it  took  Sheila 
and  Sir  William  a  moment  or  two  to  grow  accustomed 
to  the  dim  light  after  the  glare  of  the  street,  and  to  dis- 
tinguish the  form  of  Lady  Parkstone  lying  at  full  length 
on  a  sofa,  reading  a  book.  She  was  a  woman  of  five- 
and-forty,  short  in  stature  and  square  in  figure,  with  hard, 
unflinching  eyes,  a  determined,  straight  mouth  with  aggres- 
sively gold-stopped  teeth,  black,  unwaved  hair,  weather- 
beaten  skin,  an  assertive  manner,  and  precise,  dictatorial 
speech.  Sir  William,  who  postulated  softness  and  grace 
as  the  first  requisites  of  womanhood,  often  wondered  how 
any  daughter  of  his  could  be  so  lacking  in  personal  charm ; 
he  would  have  denounced  her  as  a  changeling  had  not 
the  gentleness  and  beauty  of  Lady  Daphne  reminded  him 
that  inherited  characteristics  are  sometimes  recessive  in 
quality  and  liable  to  disappear  for  a  generation. 

"Well,  Margaret,"  he  began  with  polished  affability,  "I 
hope  you've  got  over  the  fatigue  of  your  ball  last  week. 
You  see  I  preserve  the  manners  of  the  eighteen-sixties 
and  come  to  pay  my  respects  in  person  instead  of  sending 


A  HUNGER-STRIKE  41 

my  valet  around  with  well-primed  card-case.  It  was  one 
of  the  big  successes  of  the  early  season." 

"I  think  it  went  off  all  right,  though  I  pray  heaven  to 
preserve  me  from  having  to  give  another  for  twelve  months. 
I  suppose  people  enjoy  elbowing  each  other  into  a  pulp, 
or  they  wouldn't  come." 

"Speaking  for  myself,  I  enjoyed  coming  and  avoided 
being  elbowed  into  a  pulp.  Perhaps  that  was  because  I 
left  the  ball-room  to  my  juniors.  Was  Daphne  none  the 
worse  for  it?" 

"Rather  tired — we  were  all  tired — but  otherwise  no  worse 
than  she  has  been  for  the  last  six  months.  By  the  way, 
Sheila,  Daphne's  in  her  room.  I  expect  you'd  like  to  see 
her,  wouldn't  you?" 

Even  this  unceremonious  banishment  was  preferable  in 
Sheila's  eyes  to  prolonged  silence  under  her  aunt's  dis- 
approving eyes,  and  without  losing  a  moment  she  rose  and 
left  the  room.  As  the  door  closed  behind  her  Lady  Park- 
stone  turned  again  to  Sir  William. 

"Father,  I  wish  you  could  tell  me  what's  the  matter 
with  Daphne  and  what  I  ought  to  do  with  her." 

"Well,  what  is  the  matter?  I  mean,  what  are  the  symp- 
toms?" 

"I  don't  know."  Lady  Parkstone  spoke  impatiently. 
"Sha  mopes  and  takes  no  interest  in  anything  and  behaves 
generally  as  if  life  were  too  heavy  a  burden  for  her  to 
bear." 

"If  she  wasn't  engaged  to  Weybrook,  one  would  say 
she  was  in  love." 

"I  suppose  that  is  intended  for  cynicism." 

"No,  I  was  merely  eliminating  an  incredible  hypothesis." 

The  engagement  of  Lady  Daphne  to  Maurice  Weybrook 
was  the  latest  and  largest  bone  of  contention  between  Sir 
William  and  his  daughter.  Weybrook  was  an  idle  and 
bnornamental  young  man  on  the  verge  of  throwing  up  a 


42  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

commission  in  the  Guards  on  the  grounds  of  overwork. 
He  lacked  any  particular  redeeming  vice,  and  showed  no 
aptitude  for  any  intellectual  pursuit  more  profound  than 
a  thorough  acquisition  of  the  most  up-to-date  slang  in 
London.  In  age  he  was  five-and-twenty,  in  appearance 
stoutly  built,  of  medium  size,  with  black  hair  copiously  oiled 
and  brushed  back  from  the  forehead  without  a  parting, 
and  a  red  face  intensified  in  colour  and  made  interesting 
by  occasional  pimples.  In  addition  to  these  natural  advan- 
tages he  possessed  a  raucous  voice,  a  loud  laugh,  and  an 
unrivalled  faculty  for  getting  on  Sir  William's  nerves  in 
the  shortest  possible  time. 

Lady  Parkstone  kept  her  gaze  concentrated  on  other 
points  of  his  position,  notably  on  the  circumstance  that 
he  was  heir  to  the  marquisate  enjoyed  by  his  uncle;  and 
the  glamour  of  the  coronet  had  once  led  her  father  to 
hope  she  would  not  live  to  an  unduly  old  age.  "She  mar- 
ried an  earl  herself,"  he  had  said ;  "she's  sacrificing  Daphne 
to  a  marquis;  she'll  find  a  duke  for  Daphne's  daughter, 
and  in  the  next  generation  she'll  head  a  revolution  because 
she  can't  get  the  Blood  Royal  to  marry  into  the  family." 
Being  a  mere  baronet  himself  he  felt  that  his  every  ap- 
pearance in  Berkeley  Square  must  emphasise  in  painful 
fashion  the  countess's  plebeian  origin.  What  Lady  Daphne's 
own  feelings  were  towards  Maurice  Weybrook  no  one  knew. 
The  previous  winter  they  had  been  skating  together  at 
Parkstone  Manor;  the  ice  had  given  way  and  Lady 
Daphne  had  gone  in  and  disappeared  from  sight.  Wey- 
brook, with  the  courage  that  his  worst  enemy  would  have 
denied  him,  had  rescued  her,  and  before  the  end  of  his 
visit  the  two  were  engaged,  though  the  announcement — 
at  Sir  William's  almost  passionate  request — was  not  to  be 
made  public  till  Lady  Daphne  came  of  age.  In  the  mean- 
time he  and  others  busily  asserted  that  the  engagement 
was  the  outcome  of  mixed  feelings  on  Daphne's  part  and 


A  HUNGER-STRIKE  43 

that  the  girl  had  repented  her  sudden  choice:  in  any  case 
he  held  that  she  should  see  a  little  more  of  the  world 
and  the  men  it  contained  before  taking  any  irrevocable 
step. 

Sir  William  returned  to  the  discussion. 

"How  is  she  in  health?  As  we've  ruled  out  love,  we 
must  try  liver." 

"I've  taken  her  to  Farquaharson.  Of  course  I  haven't 
any  faith  in  his  judgment,  but  he's  supposed  to  be  the 
best  man.  Farquaharson  doesn't  know  what's  wrong.  I 
believe  you  could  answer  the  question  if  you  wanted  to." 

"I?  My  dear  Margaret,  I'm  no  expert  in  juvenile  ail- 
ments." 

"Well,  Daphne  was  absolutely  all  right  till  she  went 
to  stay  with  you  last  winter.  What  happened  then  I  don't 
profess  to  know,  but  she's  been  perfectly  wretched  ever 
since;  no  appetite,  no  enjoyment  of  anything,  and  always 
trying  to  put  obstacles  in  the  way  of  everything  I  tell 
her  to  do.  If  you  aren't  responsible  for  the  change,  at  any 
rate  it  took  place  in  your  house." 

"Well,  if  you  really  want  my  opinion  and  if  you  think 
my  character  wants  clearing,  I  should  say  Daphne  is  suf- 
fering from  growing  pains.  It's  a  common  disorder  at 
her  age  and  equally  troublesome  for  the  patient  and  the 
patient's  mother." 

"Now  what  on  earth  am  I  to  understand  by  that?" 

"Well,  call  them  'out-growing'  pains  and  the  meaning's 
clearer.  All  young  men  have  a  phase  of  jibbing  at  author- 
ity and  demanding  a  latch-key  of  their  own.  And  a  good 
many  girls  are  the  same.  They  outgrow  mother's  apron- 
strings  and  want  to  run  alone.  Even  you  went  through 
that  phase,  Margaret,  though  you  probably  thought  you 
were  only  making  a  stand  for  elementary  human  rights 
which  were  denied  you  by  your  very  inhuman  parents." 

"I'm  quite  sure  that  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  Daphne 


44  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

has  never  had  her  liberty  curtailed.  I  can  say  that  quite 
conscientiously." 

"My  dear,  all  parents  cherish  that  delusion.  I  thought 
the  same  about  you,  and  Daphne  will  think  the  same  about 
her  children." 

"Well,  what's  the  remedy?" 

"Give  her  the  latch-key." 

"What  will  she  do  with  it?" 

"She'll  hardly  use  it  after  the  first  week.  We  all  of  us 
come  home  to  bed  quite  cheerfully  as  long  as  we  know 
we're  at  liberty  to  stay  out  all  night." 

"Oh,  yes,  but  this  is  all  the  language  of  metaphor.  In 
plain,  unvarnished  words,  how  am  I  to  alter  my  treatment 
of  Daphne,  and  what  will  Daphne  do?" 

"Don't  ask  her  what  she's  going  to  do  and  don't  raise 
any  objections  or  reason  with  her  if  she  tells  you.  As  I 
said — in  the  language  of  metaphors — she  won't  do  much. 
Probably  she'll  break  off  her  engagement  with  Weybrook, 
but  I  can  only  regard  that  in  the  light  of  an  unmixed 
blessing." 

Lady  Parkstone  shifted  impatiently  on  the  sofa. 

"My  dear  father,  you've  really  got  Maurice  Weybrook 
on  the  brain.  I'm  not  going  to  argue  his  merits  with 
you  now,  but  I  must  point  out  that  before  they  were  en- 
gaged you  raised  no  objection,  and  in  fairness  to  us  all 
I  think  you  should  say  in  what  way  Maurice  has  changed 
so  much  for  the  worse  in  the  last  six  months." 

"I  don't  think  Maurice  has  changed." 

"Then,  good  gracious !  how  is  it  you  never  have  a  good 
word  for  him  now?" 

"Because  Daphne  has  changed.  I  told  you  she  was 
suffering  from  growing  pains,  and  one  of  the  things  she's 
outgrown  is  Maurice." 

"In  plain  language n  She  sighed  with  weary  resig- 
nation. 


A  HUNGER-STRIKE  45 

"Six  months  ago  I  regarded  Maurice  as  I  regard  him 
now,  a  very  ordinary,  thick-headed,  ignorant,  narrow- 
minded  member  of  an  ignorant  and  narrow-minded  and 
rather  useless  class.  For  simplicity's  sake,  I  call  it  the 
class  of  earth-cumberers.  Six  months  ago — forgive  me 
for  saying  that  I  did  not  know  how  much  Daphne  had 
in  her.  Very  pretty,  of  course,  and  sweet  and  tractable, 
but  it  came  as  a  surprise  to  me  to  find  suddenly  that  she'd 
got  a  soul.  I  was  wrong.  I  admit  it  unreservedly.  When 
Daphne  came  to  stay  with  me  and  I  threw  her  into  con- 
tact with  people  of  a  different  mental  calibre  from  what 
she'd  been  accustomed  to,  I  saw  my  mistake.  It  was  a 
revelation  to  me.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  child  from  an 
East-end  slum  taken  for  the  first  time  into  the  country 
or  to  the  seaside?  I  thought  of  that  when  I  saw  Daphne. 
And  if  you  ask  me  why  she's  moping  now,  I  should  say 
it's  because  she  has  found  that  the  world  is  not  entirely 
composed  of  Maurice  Weybrooks  and  that  she's  outgrown 
the  frame  of  mind  in  which  she  thought  of  marriage  with 
such  a  man  as  a  possibility." 

Lady  Parkstone  got  up  from  the  sofa  and  rang  the 
bell  for  tea. 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  about  Maurice,"  she  said,  "and 
I  don't  agree  with  you  about  Daphne,  but  you  shall  never 
say  that  I  forced  my  own  daughter  to  marry  any  man 
against  her  will.  Daphne  comes  of  age  in  November  and 
the  engagement  is  not  going  to  be  formally  announced  till 
then.  She's  got  nearly  five  months  for  making  up  her 
mind.  Can  I  say  fairer  than  that?" 

"Provided  you  don't  try  to  influence  her  one  way  or 
the  other.  Give  her  a  free  hand,  then  whatever  happens 
she'll  only  have  herself  to  blame." 

"And  in  November  we  shall  see  who  was  right." 

The  conversation  was  cut  short  by  the  arrival  of  two 
footmen  with  the  tea.  They  were  followed  a  few  minutes 


46  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

later  by  Lord  Parkstone,  who  entered  the  room  in  com- 
pany with  Maurice  Weybrook.  Lord  Parkstone  was  five 
years  older  than  his  wife,  and  from  his  peaceful,  unresist- 
ing manner  it  might  be  surmised  that  the  sceptre  of  domestic 
government  had  long  ago  been  wrested  from  his  grasp. 
A  thin,  stooping,  pale,  clean-shaven  face,  peering,  short- 
sighted eyes  and  high  forehead,  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  a  man  who  was  always  striving  to  be  conscientious  and 
always  a  shade  undecided  as  to  the  direction  in  which 
his  conscience  was  leading  him.  There  was  little  vigour 
or  quickness  of  wit  in  the  face — he  would  have  been 
the  last  to  lay  claim  to  either  quality — and  a  certain  pathetic 
admission  of  mental  slowness  was  given  in  one  instance 
by  his  close  friendship  with  Weybrook,  and  in  another 
by  his  untiring  assertion  that,  like  a  certain  statesman  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  he  was  handicapped  throughout  life 
by  mixing  with  people  whose  brains  moved  twice  as  quickly 
as  his  own.  His  rank  and  wealth  had  been  indispensable 
to  him  in  surmounting  his  shortcomings  of  intellect  and 
character,  but  they  had  only  given  him  a  start,  and  he 
had  been  carried  the  rest  of  the  way  by  sheer  high-mind- 
edness  and  hard  work.  He  had  occupied  several  subor- 
dinate positions  in  the  last  Conservative  government  and 
it  was  felt  that  his  claims  to  be  included  in  the  next  Cab- 
inet were  considerable.  At  present  his  time  was  largely 
taken  up  in  presiding  over  the  final  sittings  of  the  Birth 
Rate  Commission,  of  which  he  was  chairman. 

"Herbert,"  said  Sir  William,  after  shaking  hands  with 
the  newcomers,  "let  me  get  you  on  one  side  for  a  few 
minutes'  private  chat.  No,  no,  we  needn't  go  out  of 
the  room.  This  sofa  will  do.  Look  here,  first  of  all  how 
goes  the  Commission?" 

"The  end  of  this  week  will  see  us  through  with  the 
evidence.  Then  we  have  to  find  some  common  standpoint 
for  our  Report." 


A  HUNGER-STRIKE  47 

"You  think  you'll  disagree?" 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  My  dear  William,  when  your  scope 
of  reference  is  the  'Cause  and  Cure  for  the  Stationary 
Condition  of  the  Birth  Rate'  you  can  drag  in  every  fad 
that  has  ever  crossed  the  mind  of  man,  from  sanitation 
reform  and  model  dwelling-houses  to  horse-racing  and  the 
influence  of  Bradlaugh's  writings.  It's  heart-breaking 
work." 

"And  I  suppose  to  make  the  Commission  thoroughly 
representative  you've  got  every  variety  of  political  faith- 
healer  and  nostrum-monger  that  it  was  possible  to 
find?" 

"Pretty  well.  In  a  way  that  gives  us  our  best  chance 
of  agreeing  over  our  recommendations.  When  twenty  fad- 
dists have  finished  scratching  each  other's  eyes  out,  they 
may  agree  to  sink  their  differences,  exclude  all  short  cuts 
to  Utopia,  and  bring  forward  half  a  dozen  sober,  unimag- 
inative, practical  proposals.  I'm  rather  counting  on  that, 
and  I've  already  drawn  up  a  draft  scheme  for  the  day 
when  I  can  get  them  to  listen  to  it." 

Sir  William  lowered  his  voice  confidentially. 

"Have  your  scheme  ready,  by  all  means,  and  fling  it 
to  the  faddists  as  a  possible  basis  for  compromise;  but  if 
you'll  take  my  advice,  you  won't  back  it  yourself." 

"Not  support  my  own  scheme?" 

"It  won't  be  your  own.  You  may  come  forward  as 
the  honest  broker  and  suggest  that  it  may  reconcile  some 
of  your  colleague?,  but  then  you  retire  to  your  study,  un- 
earth your  own  particular  fad  ..." 

"I  don't  know  that  I've  got  one." 

"Then  you  must  find  one.  Herbert,  I'm  sure,  you  don't 
recognise  the  possibilities  of  that  Report.  Man!  it's  not 
given  to  all  of  us  to  issue  a  new  programme  or  fuse  a 
new  party:  it  might  be  an  everyday  occurrence,  to  judge 
from  your  apathy." 


48  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  apathetic,  but  I  don't  quite 
grasp  where  the  opportunity  lies.'' 

Sir  William  leant  forward,  resting  a  hand  on  his  son- 
in-law's  arm. 

"Look  at  the  state  of  parties!  They've  all  gone  into 
the  melting-pot,  and  if  a  hard,  serviceable  weapon  is  to 
be  made  out  of  that  seething  mass  of  metal,  why  should 
you  not  make  it?  The  Liberals  are  nearer  disruption  than 
they've  been  for  a  generation — they've  been  long  enough 
in  power  to  frighten  their  wealthy  backers  and  exasperate 
Labour." 

"They've  done  more  for  Labour  in  seven  years  than 
we  did  in  twenty." 

"What  if  they  have?  When  did  gratitude  in  politics 
become  retrospective?  The  things  for  you  to  keep  in  the 
forefront  of  your  mind  are  that  Labour  is  trying  to  con- 
solidate itself  into  a  party  of  its  own — he  ticked  the  points 
off  on  his  fingers — "and  they've  no  leaders,  no  leaders 
they'll  follow,  any  way.  The  Liberals  are  overstocked 
with  leaders,  but  they  can't  get  a  party  that  will  consistently 
follow  any  one  of  them.  And  you  Tories?  You've  got 
the  party,  you  may  have  a  leader  or  you  may  have  to 
find  one:  you've  assuredly  got  no  programme.  Anti-this, 
anti-that,  it's  a  tissue  of  negatives.  You've  not  got  a  single 
positive,  constructive  proposal  to  offer  as  an  alternative. 
Take  me  as  the  average  elector  and  put  me  in  any  social 
rank  you  like.  Now,  what  earthly  inducement  are  you 
going  to  suggest  to  make  me  vote  for  you?  I'm  a  man 
of  some  property  and  you  won't  skin  me.  Very  well,  that's 
all  you  can  offer,  and  if  I'm  not  a  man  of  property,  it 
won't  make  much  of  an  appeal,  will  it?" 

"Well?" 

Sir  William  leant  forward  with  outstretched  hand. 

"Why  not  back  a  likely  winner  for  a  change  ?  You  must 
almost  have  forgotten  the  sensation.  Why  not  a  manage 


A  HUNGER-STRIKE  49 

de  conv,enance  with  Labour?  They'll  overrun  everything 
as  soon  as  they're  organised:  why  shouldn't  you  bridle 
them?  Give  them  leaders,  and  in  return " 

"Yes?" 

"Steal  their  clothes.  Dish  'em,  as  old  Dizzy  dished  the 
Whigs.  Send  them  bathing,  Herbert." 

Lord  Parkstone  sighed  wearily. 

"I'm  getting  a  little  tired  of  new  parties  and  new  alli- 
ances. I'm  only  about  half  your  age,  William,  but  I've 
seen  the  old  two-party  system  killed  and  damned  and 
buried  at  least  every  other  year  of  my  life.  Nothing  much 
in  the  way  of  change,  though,  in  spite  of  all." 

"I  know.  A  new  party  with  a  new  world-sweeping  pro- 
gramme is  a  commonplace  of  politics.  You  so  seldom  get 
a  suitable  opportunity,  though.  You've  got  it  now,  with 
your  Commission.  You  can  steal  what  articles  of  the 
Labour  faith  you  like  and  make  them  your  own,  you  can 
wheedle  your  colleagues  on  the  Commission  into  agreeing 
on  some  pompous,  colourless  recommendations  which  will 
state  in  effect  that  this  is  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds, 
and  then — then  comes  -your  gospel." 

"Making  confusion  worse  confounded." 

"Never  mind  about  that.  John  Bright  once  said  that 
the  worst  of  great  thinkers  was  that  they  so  often  thought 
wrong.  The  British  public  takes  the  view  that  the  worst  of 
Majority  Reports  is  that  they  are  invariably  wrong." 

"Which  is  not  the  same  as  thinking  that  a  Minority 
Report  is  invariably  right." 

"In  theory,  no:  in  fact,  yes.  Anyway  the  Minority 
Report  is  the  only  report  they  read.  You  remember  the 
case  of  the  Poor  Law?  Nothing  much  came  of  it,  but  the 
Minority  Report  is  an  armoury  of  suggestions  for  ardent 
young  reformers  to  appropriate  to  their  own  use  and  carry 
through  the  land.  The  Majority  Report  invented  a  system 
of  new  labels  for  old  abuses,  and  that  was  about  all.  My 


50  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

idea  is  that  there's  a  fine  opportunity  for  you  to  identify 
yourself  with  a  comprehensive  programme  of  social  re- 
form. As  you  say,  there's  no  recommendation  which  can- 
not be  tacked  on  to  the  Birth  Rate  question ;  your  party 
badly  needs  a  new  social  policy,  and  if  you  write  some- 
thing which  strikes  people's  imagination,  there's  no  limit 
to  the  power  you  may  win  for  yourself." 

"But,  my  dear  William,  I  can't  write  a  sort  of  new 
'Social  Contract/  " 

"I  don't  suppose  you  can,  that's  why  I'm  here  to-day. 
Think  over  what  I've  said  and  tell  me  your  views  when 
it's  had  time  to  sink  in.  No,  you  couldn't  write  it,  you've 
become  officialised.  We  want  youth  and  imagination.  Your 
old  men  shall  dream  dreams — that's  me.  And  your  young 
men  shall  see  visions.  If  you  come  to  me  and  tell  me 
you  think  there's  anything  in  my  suggestion,  I'll  find  you 
the  man." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"I  musn't  mention  his  name  till  I've  approached  him. 
A  visionary,  yes,  but  a  visionary  of  the  kind  that  writes 
extraordinarily  sane  and  luminous  books  on  politics.  Very 
unusual  insight,  and  quite  a  young  man.  Hallo,  Daphne, 
how  are  you  ?  Yes,  we're  coming  to  tea  now." 

They  selected  chairs  near  the  tea-table,  and  Sir  William 
made  a  leisurely  scrutiny  of  Lady  Daphne.  There  was 
no  doubt  about  her  looking  ill  and  unhappy.  Dark  rings 
surrounded  her  brown  eyes,  there  was  a  wistful  droop 
to  the  mouth  which  made  her  seem  always  on  the  verge 
of  tears,  and  all  animation  had  gone  out  of  her  face  and 
voice.  In  character,  temperament,  manner,  and  appearance 
she  was  the  antithesis  of  his  other  granddaughter  Sheila, 
and  from  a  purely  aesthetic  point  of  view  it  might  be 
argued  that  an  expression  of  melancholy  was  that  best 
suited  to  her  features.  It  was  a  face  of  unusual  beauty, 
delicately  moulded  and  almost  transparent  in  complexion. 


A  HUNGER-STRIKE  51 

Her  eyes  were  deep  brown  in  colour,  fringed  with  long 
lashes  and  of  a  surprising  softness,  the  nose  and  mouth 
finely  chiselled  and  betraying  perhaps  an  undue  sensitive- 
ness, the  hair  of  a  deeper  brown  than  the  eyes  and  held 
close  to  the  head  by  means  of  a  single  semi-circular  bar 
of  tortoise-shell  stretching  almost  from  ear  to  ear.  If 
Rossetti  could  have  seen  the  neck  he  would  have  risen  from 
the  grave  to  paint  it,  and  he  would  have  insisted  on  com- 
municating to  his  canvas  the  grave,  wistful  expression  which 
the  face  now  wore. 

Sir  William  brushed  aside  considerations  of  aesthetics 
and  contented  himself  with  the  reflection  that  the  present 
expression  was  abnormal.  He  had  seen  the  serious  eyes 
suddenly  take  fire  with  delighted  surprise  and  enthusiasm, 
and  he  felt  that  he  could  once  again  give  himself  the 
pleasure  of  that  sight  if  a  way  were  found  of  freeing  her 
from  the  unwise  commitment  to  which  she  was  pledged. 
He  glanced  across  the  table  at  Weybrook,  who  was  talking 
noisily  to  Lady  Parkstone,  and  came  to  the  unsatisfactory 
conclusion  that  however  much  Daphne  might  appreciate 
the  unsuitability  of  Maurice  as  a  husband,  and  however! 
much  her  mother  might  speak  of  leaving  her  unrestricted 
liberty  of  action,  such  liberty  would  be  of  the  most  illusory 
order  so  long  as  Lady  Parkstone  herself  betrayed  such 
undisguised  approval  of  the  engagement  which  she  had 
contrived. 

His  meditations  were  interrupted  by  the  raucous  voice 
of  Weybrook  himself. 

"By  the  way,  Sir  William,  I  understand  you  and  Sheila 
have  been  travellin'  in  company  with  my  learned  friend 
the  pocket  encyclopaedia,  otherwise  known  as  Denys  Play- 
fair.  I  met  him  this  afternoon  and  gathered  that  you  and 
he'd  been  feedin'  the  fishes  side  by  side  through  the  Bay." 

"Is  that  the  man  who  wrote  'Foundations  of  Society'?" 
asked  Lord  Parkstone  of  Sir  William. 


52  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"The  same.    Good  book,  I  thought." 

"Very.    How  do  you  come  to  know  him,  Maurice?" 

"We  were  up  at  the  House  together.  Bar  none,  he 
was  the  greatest  glutton  for  work  I've  ever  met.  Made 
me  feel  quite  sorry  for  him.  Work!  Why,  I  fancy  I'm 
pretty  ill:used  when  they  turn  me  out  of  my  downy  bed 
at  about  five  in  the  morning  to  go  and  inspect  great  chunks 
of  raw  meat  and  certify  them  as  fit  for  the  British  Army, 
but  my  brain  would  simply  give  a  little  click  and  that 
would  be  all,  if  I  did  the  work  he  gets  through.  All  to 
no  purpose,  either;  he  always  crocks  up.  I  remember  goin' 
into  his  room  one  mornin'  just  before  his  finals.  Found 
the  feller  in  a  dead  faint  with  his  head  in  the  marmalade. 
I  tell  you,  I  never  had  such  a  shock  in  my  life.  I  thought 
he'd  pegged  out.  He  hadn't,  though,  and  he  went  in  to 
the  schools  like  a  good  'un,  but  he  only  got  a  second  and 
they  had  to  send  him  off  on  a  sea  voyage  to  keep  him 
from  goin'  potty.  He  got  a  Fellowship  afterwards,  but 
chucked  it  almost  at  once.  'Nother  breakdown,  I  expect; 
flesh  and  blood  couldn't  stand  the  strain.  At  the  end  of 
every  other  term  you  could  see  him  simply  givin'  out 
before  your  eyes ;  started  stammerin',  wrote  his  letters  and 
repeated  the  same  word  three  times  running,  went  to  the 
station  and  forgot  where  he  wanted  a  ticket  for,  started 
dressin'  for  dinner  and  then  in  pure  absence  of  mind  put 
on  his  pyjamas  and  hopped  into  bed.  I  found  him  like 
that  one  night  about  nine  o'clock,  lying  wide  awake  with 
the  light  on  and  all  his  dress-clothes  neatly  spread  out 
on  the  bed  on  top  of  him.  Poor  devil,  he  couldn't 
sleep." 

"He's  got  stronger  now,"  put  in  Sir  William. 

"I  don't  know.  He  looked  pretty  cheap  when  I  met 
him  this  afternoon.  It's  the  same  old  game,  burnin'  the 
candle  at  both  ends  and  in  the  middle.  He  still  can't  sleep 
and  he  gets  restless  and  dashes  about  in  fourteen  different 


A  HUNGER-STRIKE  53 

directions  at  the  same  time.  Then  you'll  hear  him  start 
stammerin'  and  allowin'  everything  to  worry  him  and  you 
may  look  out  for  another  smash-up.  Thank  the  Lord, 
nerves  don't  come  my  way." 

"Do  you  see  much  of  him  now?"  asked  Lord  Park- 
stone. 

"Oh,  I  run  across  him  in  all  sorts  of  unlikely  places. 
Met  him  to-day  comin'  out  of  some  club  where  all  the 
literary  bugs  meet  and  gas  about  their  books — dear  old 
Denny  slippin'  in  among  them  as  if  they  were  his  nearest 
and  dearest.  I  should  have  been  speechless :  books  aren't 
my  line,  as  Denny  can  tell  you.  He  dragged  me  through 
Pass  Mods,  by  the  hair  of  my  head,  made  me  come  to 
him,  the  brute,  for  half  an  hour  each  mornin'  before  break- 
fast and  hurled  Logic  at  me.  'All  men  are  mortal;  I  am 
a  man:  therefore  I  am  mortal.'  Sounds  so  simple  when 
you  hear  it.  'Barbara  celarent  Darii  .  .  . '  How  does  it  go 
on?  I've  forgotten  the  rest." 

"It's  something  of  a  distinction  to  have  got  you  an  arts 
degree,  Weybrook,"  observed  Sir  William  caustically. 

"I  believe  you."  Weybrook  had  no  illusions  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  intellectual  attainments.  "Speaks  well  for  the 
good  old  B.A.  Oxon.,  doesn't  it?  But  Denny's  a  wonder- 
ful feller.  You  know  him,  Daphne,  don't  you?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  Maurice." 

"Oh,  I  saw  him  at  your  party  the  other  night,  so  I  thought 
you  did.  Look  here,  you  ought  to  meet  him ;  he'd  interest 
you,  he's  one  of  the  brainy  lot,  not  like  me.  What  are 
you  doin'  to-night?  No,  to-night's  no  good.  Wednesday? 
No  go,  I'm  guardin'  the  countless  hordes  of  the  Bank  of 
England  on  Wednesday.  What  are  you  doin'  on  Thurs- 
day night?" 

"I  don't  know  yet." 

"Well,  I  was  thinking  of  dinin'  at  Ranelagh  and  tryin* 
to  get  cool.  You  come  and  I'll  ring  up  Denny  and  we'll 


54  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

get  a  fourth  and  make  a  night  of  it.     What  d'you  say?" 

"I  don't  think  I  feel  up  to  it,  Maurice,  thanks  all  the 
same."  She  spoke  very  wearily. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Daphne?"  asked  her  mother 
impatiently.  "Your  father  and  I  are  dining  out  and  you'll 
be  all  alone  if  you  dine  here." 

"Come  and  dine  with  Sheila  and  me,  Daphne,"  said  Sir 
William  gently.  "We're  keeping  each  other  company  by 
the  domestic  hearth." 

Lady  Daphne  smiled  wistfully. 

"Thanks  awfully,  granddad.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  should 
want  any  dinner  by  Thursday,  but  may  I  leave  it  that 
I'll  come  if  I  feel  up  to  it?" 

"Just  as  you  please,  my  dear.  Come  if  you  like,  don't 
come  if  you  don't  like,  but  remember  we  shall  be  delighted 
to  see  you  if  you  do  come." 

"Same  here,  Daphne,"  said  Weybrook.  "Don't  kill  the 
Ranelagh  idea  outright.  I  shall  be  goin'  in  any  case  and 
I'll  invite  Denny,  and  if  you  feel  disposed  to  join  us  at 
8.15,  so  much  the  better." 

He  got  up  to  make  his  adieux. 

"Good-bye,  Lady  •  Parkstone.  May  I  make  free  with 
your  telephone  before  I  go?  Good-bye,  Lord  Parkstone. 
Good-bye,  Sir  William.  Au  revoir,  Daphne,  and  if  we 
see  you,  we  shall  see  you." 

He  waved  a  comprehensive  hand  and  lounged  out  of 
the  room.  Sir  William  and  Sheila  gave  him  time  to  get 
out  of  the  house  and  then  followed. 

"And  that's  the  man  your  cousin  is  going  to  marry,"  he 
said  as  the  car  headed  for  Cleveland  Row. 

"Is  he?"  asked  Sheila  tranquilly.  "For  a  man  of  your 
age,  Father  Time,  you  make  some  extraordinarily  rash 
prophecies." 

"Who's  to  prevent  it?" 

"Daphne,  of  course." 


A  HUNGER-STRIKE  55' 

"She  won't.  She'd  have  done  it  months  ago  if  she  meant 
to." 

"It  wasn't  worth  her  while." 

"Who'll  make  it  worth  her  while?" 

"I  shall." 

"How?" 

"My  dear,  you're  asking  a  lot  more  questions  than  are 
good  for  you.  Tell  me,  did  you  get  Uncle  Herbert  to 
promise  anything  about  your  little  friend  Denys  Play  fair?" 

*'My  friend  ?"  repeated  Sir  William  with  an  emphasis  that 
made  Sheila  self-conscious.  "Don't  try  to  get  away  from 
the  point,  Sheila." 

"I'm  not."  She  sighed  in  pity  for  the  obtuseness  of 
men.  "No,  you  don't  see  the  connection,  and  you  wouldn't 
understand  if  I  told  you,  and  if  you  did  understand,  you'd 
muddle  things.  You'd  better  leave  it  to  me." 

"I  propose  to,"  said  her  grandfather,  selecting  a  cigarette. 


CHAPTER  III 

DINNER  FOR  TWO  IN  THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM 

"...  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin  fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use! 

As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life 

The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks: 

The  long  day  wanes:  the  slow  moon  climbs:  the  deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.    Come,  my  friends, 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 

Push  off,  and   sitting  well  in  order  smite 

The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die." — TENNYSON  :  "ULYSSES." 

"SHALL  we  see  you  at  the  Stapleton's  later  on  ?" 

It  was  the  night  of  Maurice  Weybrook's  projected  party 
at  Ranelagh  and  Lord  Parkstone  had  looked  in  at  his 
daughter's  room  on  his  way  to  a  political  dinner  and  an 
India  Office  reception.  Lady  Parkstone,  aggressively  pre- 
mature, was  already  in  the  hall,  proposing  a  vote  of  No 
Confidence  in  her  Creator. 

"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  yet,"  said  Daphne  from  the 
lazy  depths  of  a  low  chair.  "If  I  dine  with  Maurice's  party 
I  shan't  bother  to  change :  if  I  go  to  granddad's  I  suppose 
Sheila  will  make  me  go  on  with  them." 

"Don't  go  if  you're  not  up  to  it,"  he  said,  bending  down 
to  kiss  her. 

"I'm  all  right,  daddy,  really  I  am.  Only  it's  so  hot  to 
have  to  talk  to  people.  Good-bye.  I  shall  have  made  up 
my  mind  soon." 

56 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  57 

Left  to  herself  Lady  Daphne  puzzled  her  brains  to  plumb 
the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  her  mother.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  recollection  she  had  been  left  with  perfect 
freedom  to  dispose  of  her  evening  as  she  liked.  "You'd 
better  take  this  latch-key  if  you're  likely  to  be  late,"  was 
Lady  Parkstone's  contribution  to  the  dinner  problem. 
Daphne  had  asserted  the  improbability  of  requiring  it.  "If 
not  now,  another  night,"  her  mother  had  replied  with  a 
ring  of  unconviction  in  her  voice;  "it's  time  you  had  one." 
Daphne  sat  looking  at  the  key  with  the  dissatisfaction  of 
one  who  has  had  an  undesired  favour  ungraciously  thrust 
upon  her.  She  did  not  want  to  keep  late  hours  or  lead  any 
kind  of  clandestine  existence.  She  would  have  liked  her 
mother's  sympathy  and  approval  in  all  she  did. 

The  difficulty  was  that  Lady  Parkstone  regarded  man 
and  woman  as  being  made  for  the  London  season,  and 
Daphne  had  aspirations  which  caused  her  frequent  qualms 
of  conscience  when  she  reckoned  up  the  hours  spent  in  the 
idle  artificialities  of  social  intercourse  and  considered  how 
much  profitably  they  might  have  been  employed  in  lessening 
the  dead  weight  of  human  misery  which  she  vaguely  be- 
lieved to  exist  all  round  her.  She  had  never  seen  it,  because 
it  was  part  of  her  mother's  creed  that  human  misery  was  the 
self-sought  punishment  of  the  unworthy  and  that  in  any 
case  there  were  properly  constituted  Poor  Law,  Lunacy, 
and  Public  Health  authorities  to  deal  with  their  respective 
branches  of  social  disease.  Any  desire  for  amateur  inter- 
ference she  regarded  as  morbid. 

So  Daphne  chafed  and  dreamed  and  chafed  again.  The 
world  was  in  loose,  informal  alliance  with  her  mother  to 
keep  her  blindfolded  and  ignorant ;  politics  were  eschewed 
till  she  had  left  the  dinner-table  with  the  rest  of  the  ladies, 
and  it  seemed  part  of  a  secret  code  that  the  preachers,  min- 
isters, authors,  and  sociological  explorers  who  were  invited 
for  the  famous  Sunday  luncheons  in  Berkeley  Square, 


58  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

should  be  locked  and  barred  out  of  the  territory  they  had 
made  their  own,  and  condemned  to  vapid  discussion  of 
current  drama  and  recent  fiction.  Wistfully  she  compared 
herself  to  a  caged  bird  whose  wings  have  grown  power- 
less through  long  captivity.  Her  mother  had  presented  her 
with  a  tangible  key  and  ostentatiously  left  her  to  her  own 
devices.  The  change  in  her  position  was  unappreciable :  she 
did  not  know  how  to  bring  herself  into  touch  with  anyone 
who  could  direct  her  energies  into  the  proper  channel.  Her 
new-found  liberty  frightened  her;  in  time,  no  doubt,  she 
would  get  used  to  it.  But  as  she  pinned  on  a  hat  and  slipped 
quietly  out  of  the  house  to  dine — not  with  Maurice  or  her 
grandfather,  but  by  herself — her  conscience  told  her  that 
she  was  prompted  less  by  the  pleasurable  excitement  of 
novelty  than  by  a  dutiful  desire  not  to  waste  opportunities  or 
give  in  to  the  shrinking  timidity  which  seemed  to  clog  every 
effort  to  ennoble  her  life  with  usefulness  or  independence. 
Ruefully  she  was  forced  to  admit  that  her  regeneration  was 
opening  under  the  most  dispiriting  auspices. 

As  she  walked  southward  into  Piccadilly  and  northeast- 
ward up  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  the  problem  where  to  dine 
was  exercising  another  mind  within  two  miles  of  her. 
Denys  Playfair,  in  shirt  and  trousers,  was  staring  out  of 
the  library  window  of  his  flat  in  Buckingham  Gate,  realising 
how  hopeless  and  depressing  life  could  be  even  on  a  sunny 
May  evening  with  the  trees  in  the  park  below  him  richly 
green  and  restfully  cool.  His  gloom  was  only  relieved  by 
the  memory  that  he  had  refused  Maurice  Weybrook's  in- 
vitation to  dinner;  in  his  present  mood,  to  talk  or  listen 
or  laugh  was  beyond  his  powers.  It  had  been  a  day  of  ex- 
asperation: first  an  examination  by  his  doctor,  who  told 
him  with  stern  candour  that  the  benefit  derived  from  his 
winter  abroad  had  already  disappeared  and  that  he  would 
infallibly  break  down  afresh  unless  he  showed  some  moder- 
ation in  the  work  he  was  doing.  Beyond  affording  an  op- 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  59 

portunity  of  including  the  medical  profession  in  his  com- 
prehensive disgust  with  mankind,  the  information  had  given 
him  no  encouragement :  it  lacked  even  the  charm  of  novelty ; 
his  hollow  eyes,  sunken  cheeks,  and  intermittent  cough  were 
as  eloquent  as  any  doctor's  warning. 

From  Harley  Street  he  had  hurried  to  the  City  and  fret- 
ted through  the  interminable  irritation  of  a  board  meeting. 
His  colleagues  rawed  his  nerves  with  their  tricks  of  speech 
and  solemn  stupidity,  and  his  annoyance  was  none  the  less 
keen  for  the  knowledge  that  it  was  unreasonable,  childish, 
unworthy.  But  they  were  so  slow  and  unimaginative,  so 
few  possessed  any  real  knowledge  of  business,  and  the  man- 
aging director,  of  whom  at  least  some  superiority  might  be 
expected,  was  carrying  the  board  with  him  along  a  road 
which  Denys  firmly  believed  led  ultimately  to  a  public  en- 
quiry and  the  dock.  There  had  been  the  usual  wrangle, 
the  usual  loss  of  temper,  an  interchange  of  personalities, 
and  a  hint  of  resignation. 

As  usual,  Sir  William  in  the  chair  had  smoothed  away 
their  differences,  but  the  crisis  had  only  been  postponed. 
When  a  managing  director  was  paid  by  results  and  took 
advantage  of  his  colleagues'  ignorance  to  accept  wild  risks, 
make  no  increase  in  reserve  for  liabilities,  and  keep  the 
Company's  securities  at  a  swollen,  undepreciated  figure,  the 
final  debacle  was  but  a  question  of  time.  Denys  would  have 
resigned  before  that  day,  but  how  to  support  himself  after 
the  loss  of  his  directorship  was  a  problem  of  which  he  had 
as  yet  found  no  solution. 

From  the  board  meeting  he  had  returned  home  and  tried 
to  concentrate  his  mind  on  the  deadlock  in  'Modern  Democ- 
racy." The  words  would  not  come,  his  nerves  were  excited, 
and  after  a  wasted  hour  he  turned  to  the  mechanical,  soul- 
deadening  task  of  correcting  proofs.  Even  this  failed  to 
hold  his  attention :  the  memory  of  the  tumultuous  meeting, 
the  flushed,  angry  face  of  the  managing  director  kept  rising 


60  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

to  disturb  him.  When  he  resigned  he  would  be  uncom- 
fortably near  the  rocks  .  .  .  Pushing  aside  the  long  slips 
of  proofs  he  strode  up  and  down  his  long  library.  Tech- 
nically he  could  afford  to  live  in  Buckingham  Gate,  inas- 
much as  his  rent  was  paid  and  he  owed  no  man.  In  fact, 
it  was  an  extravagance  justified  solely  by  a  stubborn  refusal 
to  take  less  than  what  he  considered  his  due  share  of  the 
world's  comforts.  Perhaps  it  was  the  memory  of  the  grey 
stone  castle  where  he  had  been  born,  perhaps  the  inherited 
memory  of  the  Playfairs  who  had  lived  there  since  Henry 
VIII.  granted  them  the  land:  when  starvation  ceased  to 
haunt  him,  his  first  step  had  been  to  acquire  a  home  of 
which  he  needed  to  feel  no  shame — spacious,  dignified, 
raised  loftily  beyond  the  reach  alike  of  those  who  sneered 
and  those  who  patronised.  It  was  symbolical  of  everything 
that  lent  a  pride  to  life :  not  until  he  had  been  beaten  to  his 
knees  would  he  compromise  with  his  self-respect.  The  price 
was  heavy,  and  in  all  his  years  of  poverty  he  had  never  con- 
sented to  learn  economy  or  accept  the  inevitable ;  and  casting 
a  shadow  over  all  his  work  was  the  knowledge  that  another 
breakdown  in  health  would  leave  him  unable  to  satisfy  his 
creditors — or  live  out  his  dream  .  .  . 

Sometimes,  when  he  looked  at  his  life  in  perspective,  the 
responsibility  of  his  task  seemed  overwhelming:  a  single 
frail  body  and  weary  brain  were  entrusted  with  the  duty  of 
vengeance ;  when  the  goal  was  reached  or  his  strength  had 
proved  insufficient,  the  family  with  all  its  obstinate  bril- 
liance and  perverse  charm  would  end  in  his  person,  and  till 
that  day  he  was  doomed  to  live  in  loneliness,  asking  sym- 
pathy of  none  and  admitting  none  to  his  confidence.  Great 
as  was  the  terror  of  annihilation  and  the  thought  that  he 
would  never  have  wife  to  comfort  or  son  to  succeed  him, 
the  haunting  terror  of  loneliness  was  still  greater.  Between 
him  and  solitude  was  an  old-fashioned  portrait  of  a 
young  man  with  thin,  sensitive  face,  troubled  and  re- 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  61 

proachful  eyes.  It  hung  over  the  mantelpiece.  The  mouth 
was  irresolute,  but  the  broad,  thoughtful  forehead  gave 
promise  of  big  intellectual  achievement.  That  promise  had 
never  been  fulfilled,  as  the  young  man  had  been  found 
guilty  of  murder  and  sentenced  to  death  before  he  was 
thirty. 

Turning  wearily  from  the  window  Denys  sank  into  a  hot 
bath  and  then  began  dressing  for  dinner.  The  process  was 
still  incomplete  when  he  recognised  that  the  last  thing  he 
wanted  to  do  was  to  dine  ponderously  at  his  club  and  listen 
to  the  slow,  nerveless  gossip  of  the  encrusted  habitues.  He 
must  dine  with  his  own  low  spirits  or  take  his  cbance  of 
meeting  someone  who  would  at  least  keep  him  from  awak- 
ing to  the  grotesque  realities  of  his  existence.  Changing 
into  an  old  tweed  suit  and  soft  felt  hat  he  jumped  into  a 
taxi  and  drove  to  a  little-known  restaurant  in  Greek  Street 
which  he  had  been  wont  to  patronise  in  the  days  of  jour- 
nalism and  intenser  poverty. 

"La  Reine  Pedauque,"  so  christened  by  him  in  pious 
memory  of  Anatole  France,  had  sacrificed  some  of  its  prim- 
itive Bohemianism  as  a  concession  to  insular  prejudices. 
Square,  green  tubs  of  dwarf  palms  were  ranged  outside 
the  muffled-glass  windows,  and  most  of  the  white-aproned 
waiters  could  speak  English  with  tolerable  fluency.  But 
the  sanded  floor  remained,  dress-clothes  still  exposed  the 
wearer  to  suspicion,  it  was  still  possible  to  smoke  a  pipe 
after  dinner  (though  Petits  Caporals  predominated),  an 
orchestra  was  not  yet  contemplated,  electric  light — at  Denys' 
urgent  prayer — was  still  excluded  in  favour  of  candles,  and 
no  diner  would  have  been  admitted  a  second  time  if  at  his 
entry  and  exit  he  failed  to  exchange  a  few  words  with 
Madame. 

Denys,  who  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  a  favourite  and  was 
always  addressed  by  Madame  as  "mon  p'tit,"  in  spite  of  his 
six  feet  of  humanity,  was  a  guest  desired  and  beloved. 


62  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Taking  off  his  hat  with  a  bow  he  charged  her  with  not 
remembering  him. 

"But,  monsieur,  small  blame  to  me  if  I  did  forget  you 
when  you  come  to  me  so  seldom  now." 

"No,  Madame,  you  are  getting  proud  and  prosperous. 
Look  at  your  house — not  a  seat  to  spare  and  not  a  memory 
for  your  oldest  friend.  And  you  never  used  to  call  me 
'monsieur.' " 

"How  was  I  to  know  you  hadn't  got  married  in  all  this 
long  time?  M'dame  Playfair  would  not  like  to  hear  me 
calling  you  'mon  p'tit.'  ' 

"As  if  I  should  get  married  and  you  not  at  my  wedding !" 

"Ah,  you  all  of  you  come  and  go,  and  poor  old  Madame 
never  sees  you  again.  There  are  none  of  the  old  friends 
here  to-night  that  I  used  to  have  when  we  opened  La  Reine." 

"We  wander  abroad  for  a  time,  Madame,  but  we  return 
to  our  first  loves  as  I  am  returning  to-night.  And  then  we 
find  that  you  have  got  new  friends  and  there  is  no  place 
for  us." 

"Ah,  mon  p'tit,  that  you  should  say  that!  Look  in  the 
corner  by  the  window,  a  little  table  a  deux.  The  little  lady 
has  almost  finished  and  she  will  not  mind  your  sharing  her 
table  if  I  tell  her  you  are  one  of  my  friends." 

Denys  followed  the  direction  of  her  plump,  beringed 
finger  and  saw  a  girl  sitting  by  herself  in  the  farthest  corner 
of  the  room.  She  seemed  to  be  about  twenty  years  of  age 
and  was  dressed  in  a  white  coat  and  skirt  and  large  black 
hat.  The  clothes  were  of  a  more  fashionable  cut  and  ex- 
pensive material  than  were  usually  seen  at  the  Reine,  and 
the  pale  face  with  its  large,  wistful  eyes  and  crown  of  brown 
hair  seemed  out  of  place  among  the  vivacious,  chatting 
daughters  of  the  South  who  formed  Madame's  most  per- 
manent clientele.  The  face  was  familiar  to  Denys,  though 
for  the  moment  he  could  not  recall  when  or  where  he  had 
last  seen  it. 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  63 

"Who  is  she,  Madame?"  he  asked.    "A  new  customer?" 

"She  has  never  been  here  before,  monsieur.  She  is  not 
of  the  same  genre  as  my  others.  I  expect  she  comes  to  see 
what  it  is  like  and  to  tell  her  friends  she  has  had  an  ad- 
venture." Madame  discouraged  the  presence  of  the  non- 
Bohemian  element. 

"But  if  you  have  given  her  a  good  dinner,  Madame,  she 
will  come  again  and  bring  her  friends,  and  that  is  all  sous 
in  Madame's  stocking.  Was  it  a  good  dinner?  Do  you 
still  give  good  dinners,  Madame?" 

"Go  and  sit  down  by  the  little  lady,  mon  p'tit,  and  you 
shall  see  what  the  Reine  can  do.  A  bisque?"  Denys 
nodded.  "Sole  a  la  reine?"  He  nodded  again.  "Omelette 
aux  champignons?  and  fromage?" 

"And  coffee,  Madame.  Do  you  still  make  the  coffee 
yourself  ?" 

"Not  as  a  rule,  monsieur;  I  am  too  busy  keeping  these 
lazy  men  to  their  work.  But  to-night  .  .  .  and  for  you, 
mon  p'tit !" 

"And  for  the  little  lady,  Madame.  She  looks  unhappy 
She  will  never  be  happy  again  if  she  comes  to  the  Reine 
and  does  not  taste  your  coffee." 

A  fat,  good-natured  laugh  was  the  reply,  and  she  bustled 
away  to  the  baize-covered  door  which  led  to  the  kitchen. 
Already  in  better  temper  and  piqued  with  curiosity  to  know 
the  identity  of  his  fellow-diner,  Denys  threaded  his  way 
through  the  maze  of  little  tables  to  the  corner  where  the 
girl  was  seated  watching  him. 

The  course  of  conversation  between  Denys  and  Madame 
had  been  attentively  watched  and  in  part  overheard  by  the 
girl  in  the  white  cloth  coat  and  skirt  and  the  large  black  hat. 
She  had  found  time  in  the  course  of  her  dinner  to  exhaust 
her  examination  of  the  other  patrons  of  La  Reine  Pedauque., 
and  the  arrival  of  Denys  had  come  as  an  opportune  diver- 
sion. Unlike  herself,  he  was  dressed  in  a  manner  which 


64  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

was  in  perfect  keeping  with  his  surroundings,  and  she 
amused  herself  for  an  idle  minute  with  wondering  who 
and  what  he  could  be.  The  thin,  classic  face  with  its  pale 
colouring,  its  deep-set,  dark  eyes,  its  thin-lipped,  sensitive 
mouth  and  expression  of  nervous  alertness  aroused  her  in- 
terest, though  she  found  herself  seized  with  ungovernable 
shyness  and  a  sinking  sensation  of  detected  guilt  when  he 
followed  the  direction  of  Madame's  pointing  finger  and 
approached  the  vacant  seat  at  the  opposite  end  of  her  table. 

"If  this  chair  is  not  engaged,  may  I  take  it?"  he  began. 
"I  apologize  for  breaking  in  on  the  privacy  of  your  meal, 
but  La  Reine  has  grown  so  popular  that  it  can  hardly  ac- 
commodate all  its  clients." 

The  girl  murmured  an  inaudible  acquiescence,  and  then, 
not  wishing  to  appear  resentful  at  the  intrusion,  remarked : 

"They  seem  to  do  a  wonderfully  good  business  here." 

"Madame  is  an  excellent  manager;  I  hope  she  has  given 
you  a  good  dinner.  She  tells  me  this  is  your  first  appear- 
ance here  and  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  go  away  dissatisfied. 
Indeed,"  he  smiled  apologetically,  "as  I  arrived  too  late  to 
superintend  the  choice  of  your  dinner,  I  took  the  liberty  of 
interfering  with  its  final  stages  and  insisting  on  Madame 
serving  you  with  coffee  of  her  own  making." 

"It's  something  to  be  an  habitue,"  said  the  girl,  respond- 
ing easily  to  the  frank  friendliness  of  his  tone. 

"Oh,  Madame  and  I  are  old  friends.  I  say,  if  you've 
finished,  may  I  smoke  a  cigarette  till  my  soup  comes? 
Thanks  so  much.  Yes,  I  feel  like  a  godfather  to  La  Reine, 
inasmuch  as  I  chose  the  name  and  gave  it  a  column  and  a 
half  of  advertisement  in  one  of  the  evening  papers." 

"And  now  you've  deserted  it  for  pastures  new.  I  heard 
Madame  reproaching  you." 

"Well,  it's  rather  changed  in  the  last  three  years.  We 
used  to  have  great  fun  in  the  old  days  when  first  it  opened, 
half  a  dozen  of  us  who  came  here  every  night  for  supper. 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  65 

We  had  two  leader-writers  from  two  daily  papers  on  the 
opposite  side  in  politics,  a  barrister,  an  actor,  a  remittance- 
man  who'd  quarrelled  with  his  father  and  was  subsisting  on 
whatever  he  could  make,  in  whatever  way  he  could  devise, 
and  myself.  And  here  we  sat  consuming  poached  eggs  and 
Welsh  rarebits  and  talking  about  everything  in  heaven  and 
earth  and  the  waters  under  the  earth  till  closing-time." 

The  girl  was  smiling  at  his  recital  and  as  she  smiled  a 
tiny  dimple  appeared  in  each  cheek.  In  a  flash  it  came  to 
Denys'  mind  where  he  had  last  seen  that  smile. 

"And  what  has  happened  to  you  all  now?"  asked  the 
girl,  in  happy  ignorance  that  her  identity  had  been  betrayed. 

"Oh,  we're  scattered  to  the  four  winds  and  some  of  us 
have  degenerated  into  respectability.  The  actor  is  touring 
in  Australia,  both  the  journalists  are  married,  the  remit- 
tance-man disembarressed  himself  of  his  father  and  suc- 
ceeded to  a  peerage,  and  the  barrister  is  undergoing  a  term 
of  imprisonment  for  obtaining  money  under  false  pretences. 
No,  it  wasn't  that;  barristers  haven't  enough  imagination. 
I  forget  now  what  his  crime  was.  I'm  sorry  our  supper- 
table  was  broken  up :  matrimony  and  private  means  are  the 
great  stumbling-blocks  in  a  young  man's  path,  and  as  neither 
came  our  way  in  those  days  we  were  ready  to  throw  our- 
selves light-heartedly  into  any  adventure  that  offered.  How- 
ever, I'm  afraid  this  is  not  very  interesting  to  you." 

"Oh,  do  go  on!"  The  tone  was  so  earnest  that  Denys 
looked  up  in  some  surprise.  The  girl  was  sitting  with  her 
elbows  on  the  table  and  her  hands  clasped  under  her  chin, 
drinking  in  every  word  with  wide-eyed  enjoyment.  She 
flushed  a  little  at  her  own  eagerness.,  and  went  on  explana- 
torily : 

"You  see,  I  never  meet  people  who  do  things,  and  I  never 
do  anything  myself.  When  you  were  a  little  boy,  did  you 
get  all  the  books  of  travel  in  the  house  and  read  them  in 
bed?  /did.  If  I  couldn't  see  the  places  themselves,  I  could 


66  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

at  least  read  about  them.  And  it's  the  same  with  people. 
I'd  give  anything  to  be  a  man  and  choose  my  own  life,  but 
as  I  can't  do  that,  I  do  love  to  hear  what  other  people 
do." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  sound  much,  though  I  enjoyed  it  at  the 
time.  I  was  a  Special  Correspondent  and  used  to  get  sent 
anywhere  that  there  was  good  'copy'  to  be  obtained.  I  did 
a  little  cattle-driving  in  Ireland,  and  took  part  in  a  South 
Wales  coal-strike,  and  floated  about  in  the  Paris  floods,  and 
got  involved  in  a  Suffragette  raid  on  the  House,  and  flew 
half-way  across  the  Channel  on  an  aeroplane,  and  assisted 
in  a  hunger  march  and  a  presidential  election  and  a  revolu- 
tion in  Constantinople.  That  was  the  time  they  got  rid  of 
Abdul  Hamid.  And  I  helped  at  a  pogrom  in  Odessa — that 
was  in  holiday  time,  though.  Four  of  us  signed  on  before 
the  mast  of  a  Black  Sea  tramp  and  got  to  Odessa  just  in 
time  to  lend  a  hand  in  exterminating  the  Jews.  But  now, 
as  I  said  before,  we've  most  of  us  degenerated  into  respec- 
tability." 

"But  why?"    Her  voice  was  plaintively  disappointed. 

"Well,  our  remittance-man  lost  his  taste  for  wandering 
when  he'd  got  a  substantial  income  and  landed  estate  and  a 
peerage,  and  our  journalists  married  wives  who  gave  them 
an  exaggerated  idea  of  the  value  of  their  lives  to  the  com- 
munity." 

"But  you've  not  given  it  up  ?" 

"I  had  to :  the  doctors  said  it  was  too  much  for  me.  Not 
that  I  minded  that,  we've  all  got  to  die  some  time,  but  it 
wasn't  much  fun  doing  it  single-handed,  so  I  rolled  up  my 
tent  and  sold  my  camp  bedstead  and  blossomed  out  into  the 
prosperous  man  of  business." 

"And  don't  you  ever  meet  here  for  an  annual  dinner  or 
anything?" 

"We've  grown  prosaic  and  unsentimental.  When  any 
one  of  us  comes  here  he  comes  alone,  and  for  the  reason 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  67 

that  I  came  to-night — the  reason,  by  the  way,  that  brought 
you." 

"And  what's  that?"  she  asked  with  a  smile. 

"We  get  into  a  state  of  acute  nervous  depression  and 
want  a  place  where  we  can  hide  ourselves  and  nobody  knows 
us  and  we're  surrounded  by  strange  faces  and  needn't  open 
our  unsociable  mouths  to  a  living  soul.  Incidentally  I'm 
afraid  I've  deprived  you  of  the  last-named  boon." 

"Never  mind.  I've  deprived  you  of  the  blessing  of  ob- 
scurity." She  gave  a  surprisingly  good  imitation  of  Mad- 
ame's  comfortable  and  good-tempered  voice:  "How  do  I 
know  that  you've  not  been  getting  married  in  all  this  long 
time  ?  Madame  Playfair  would  not  like  to  hear  me  calling 
you  'mon  p'tit.' " 

"Ah,  but  what's  in  a  name  if  it  conveys  nothing?" 

"But  perhaps  it  does.    Is  the  Christian  name  Denys?" 

"Tell  me  why  you  ask  and  I'll  tell  you  if  you're 
right." 

"Well,  if  it's  Denys,  I  heard  your  praises  being  sung  the 
other  afternoon.  If  it's  not  Denys  the  praise  belongs  to 
someone  else." 

"I  must  hear  what  the  praises  were  before  I  decide 
whether  they're  worth  appropriating." 

"The  vanity  of  it!  That  gives  you  away  and  I've  got 
the  advantage  of  you." 

Denys  threw  away  his  cigarette  and  addressed  himself 
to  the  soup. 

"I  fancy  not,  though  I  was  being  kind  and  respecting  your 
secret.  You  know  the  story  of  King  Edward  going  incog- 
nito to  the  opera  in  Paris?  He  hated  being  followed  by  a 
crowd  of  satellites  when  he  was  supposed  to  be  incognito, 
so  one  night  he  slipped  his  collar  and  went  off  to  the  opera 
without  saying  where  he  was  going.  It  was  a  complete  suc- 
cess. He  wandered  into  the  foyer  and  strolled  around  the 
circle  and  not  a  soul  recognized  him.  Poligni  was  singing, 


68  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

and  singing  her  best.  Somebody  from  the  box  office  con- 
gratulated her  afterwards  and  asked  her  if  she  knew  she 
had  been  singing  to  royalty.  She  said  yes,  and  a  less  ap- 
preciative audience  than  a  house  full  of  detectives  it  had 
never  been  her  misfortune  to  meet.  One  seat  had  been 
taken  by  the  king:  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  the  house  was 
filled  with  fashionably  attired  gens-d'armes.  Since  that 
time  I've  appreciated  the  sacredness  of  an  incognito,  Lady 
Daphne." 

"How  did  you  know?"  The  animation  had  gone  out  of 
her  face  and  was  succeeded  by  an  expression  of  disap- 
pointment and  timidity 

"You  gave  me  a  gracious  welcome  at  the  Ritz  on  Friday 
in  respect  of  which  my  cards  are  now  adorning  the  table 
in  your  hall.  .  That  is,  unless  your  grandfather  forgot  to 
leave  them  the  other  afternoon.  But  you  mustn't  make  me 
think  I've  spoilt  your  evening:  it  was  a  bit  of  a  surprise 
finding  you  here,  but  I  won't  tell  a  living  soul,  honour  bright, 
I  won't.  And  what's  a  great  deal  harder,  I  won't  even  ask 
why  you're  here — at  your  age — at  this  hour — all  alone — in 
mid  season!" 

For  a  moment  she  sat  in  silence,  wondering  whether  to 
admit  him  to  her  confidence ;  then  she  asked : 

"Had  you  any  engagement  to-night?" 

"About  fifteen,"  said  Denys  with  a  groan.  "I  may  yet 
live  to  keep  some  of  them,  though  I  fear  it's  too  late  for 
repentance  on  the  subject  of  Maurice  Weybrook's  dinner." 

"I  was  invited  to  that,  too — invited  to  meet  you.  Maurice 
told  me  you  were  one  of  the  brainy  people  ..." 

"And  that  finished  you.  Maurice  has  no  business  to  dis- 
seminate charges  of  that  kind." 

"I  didn't  feel  worthy." 

"When  you  take  the  trouble  to  hide  yourself  in  the  in- 
accessible fastness  of  Soho  to  avoid  meeting  a  man  at  din- 
ner, it's  a  little  hard  if  he  comes  and  sits  down  at  the  same 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  69 

table.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  I've  no  intention  of  going 
unless  you  absolutely  order  me  away." 

"I  shan't  do  that."  His  gentle  tone  made  her  forget  her 
timidity,  and  the  nervous  expression  of  weary  restlessness  in 
her  eyes  forced  her  to  feel  in  some  fashion  sympathetic  and 
akin.  "I  asked  if  you'd  any  engagement  for  to-night  be- 
cause I  was  wondering  if  you  ever  got  so  tired  of  dining  out, 
and  dancing,  and  talking  the  same  silly  talk  that  it  was  all 
you  could  do  to  keep  from  screaming.  That's  how  I  felt 
this  evening." 

"That's  how  you've  been  feeling  a  good  many  times  be- 
fore this  evening." 

"Have  I  ?"  She  spoke  defiantly,  but  the  defiance  wavered 
before  his  steady  gaze.  Denys  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  wouldn't  have  risked  being  found  out,  you  wouldn't 
have  screwed  up  courage  to  come  here  the  first  time  you  had 
the  feeling." 

"I  suppose  not."  She  sighed.  "It's  bad  to  be  a  coward 
and  it's  worse  to  know  you're  a  coward.  If  I  wasn't  always 
afraid.  .  ." 

"What  of?" 

"Oh,  everything.  I'm  afraid  of  offending  people  or 
hurting  their  feelings.  I  hate  being  found  fault  with. 
'Tisn't  that  I  want  to  do  anything  I  oughtn't  but  I  can't  do 
the  things  I  know  I  ought  to  do,  because  relations  and  peo- 
ple are  always  making  difficulties.  They  can't  understand 
that  I  want  to  do  some  good  ..."  She  sat  nervously  mak- 
ing bread  pellets.  "Sometimes  '.  .  .  when  you've 
time  to  think,  it's  simply  awful  to  see  the  kind  of  life  you're 
leading.  You  get  up  in  the  morning  and  have  a  maid  to  do 
your  hair  and  dress  you  .  .  .  as  if  you  couldn't  do  it 
yourself !  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I've  almost  forgotten  how  to. 
And  men  to  wait  on  you  and  bring  your  food.  Mr.  Playfair, 
doesn't  it  make  your  blood  boil  to  see  strong,  able-bodied 
men  wearing  liveries  and  wasting  themselves  on  things 


70  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

like    opening    carriage    doors    and    tucking    in    rugs?" 

"Candidly,  no,"  said  Denys  with  a  smile.  "If  a  man's  a 
footman,  it's  because  he  has  the  menial  spirit.  Nature's 
wonderful  at  helping  us  to  find  our  level.  If  I  drift  through 
life  as  a  director  of  an  insurance  company,  say,  it  means 
that  I'm  fit  for  nothing  better.  If  I  rise  above  that  .  .  ." 

"Then  that  means  my  lot  in  life  is  to  be  pampered  and 
bemaided,  wasting  other  people  and  wasting  myself,  so  that 
I  may  have  leisure  to  lunch  out  and  dine  out  and  go  to  the 
opera  and  dance  and  stay  in  stupid  houses  and  wander  about 
behind  a  lot  of  men  with  guns  .  .  ." 

"Not  a  bad  life,  many  would  say." 

"You  wouldn't." 

"No,  I  wouldn't." 

"Well,  why  aren't  I  allowed  to  be  of  some  use?  The 
world  isn't  so  perfect  that  it  can  afford  to  waste  even  me. 
And  it  isn't  so  rich  that  it  can  afford  to  squander  money  as 
I — all  of  us — squander  it.  The  money  we  spend  on  clothes 
and  food  alone  .  .  . .  it  really  makes  me  quite  sick  some- 
times. And  the  poor  girls  who  make  the  clothes,  they're 
underpaid  and  underfed  and  overworked  and  have  to  live  in 
horrid,  poky  little  rooms.  It  isn't  fair  to  say  they're  fit  for 
nothing  else ;  they  haven't  had  the  chance.  If  you  said  I  was 
fit  for  nothing  but  living  on  their  labour  and  being  utterly 
useless  it  would  be  nearer  the  truth.  Even  then  it  wouldn't 
be  quite  true.  I  do  want  to  make  things  more  comfortable 
for  people  who  haven't  as  much  to  make  them  happy.  Only 
I  don't  see  how  it's  to  be  done.  Mother  only  laughs  at  me 
and  tells  me  not  to  be  morbid  when  I  try  to  explain  how  I 
hate  doing  nothing  except  spend  money  and  pretend  I'm  en- 
joying myself.  It  isn't  right  .  .  .  and  I  should  be  afraid 
to  talk  to  her  as  I've  been  talking  to  you.  Oh,  how  I  wish 
I  were  a  man!" 

"With  your  livelihood  to  earn?" 

"Yes." 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  71 

Denys  looked  up  into  the  earnest  brown  eyes  and  shook 
his  head  slowly. 

"That's  as  near  blasphemy  as  you're  likely  to  get.  Only 
people  who  have  their  living  to  earn  know  how  hard  the 
struggle  sometimes  is." 

"Then  we'd  better  be  weeded  out.  Take  Maurice,  take  me. 
If  we  can't  show  enough  character  to  hold  our  own  and  keep 
from  going  under,  we're  better  out  of  the  way.  And  you 
know  we  couldn't  ...  we  have  to  be  coddled  from  the 
moment  of  our  birth,  people  waiting  on  us  and  working  to 
provide  us  with  money.  And  we  spend  it  on  ourselves  and 
wear  expensive  clothes  and  give  extravagant  parties.  And 
then  we  marry  and  another  generation  comes  on  the  scene 
and  the  old  useless  story's  repeated.  I  do  feel  I  was  meant 
for  something  better  than  that.  And  if  that's  all  I'm  fit  for," 
she  shrugged  her  shoulders  despairingly,  "what's  the  good  of 
being  born?" 

Denys  cut  a  cigar  and  looked  round  for  matches. 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  do?" 

"How  do  I  know?  Everything's  strange  to  me,  I  know 
absolutely  nothing  about  life  except  what  you  see  of  it — 
well,  living  as  I  do.  A  lot  of  men  and  girls  hurrying  from 
one  entertainment  to  another,  then  marrying  and  teaching 
their  children  to  look  on  life  from  exactly  the  same  stand- 
point. First  of  all  I  want  to  meet  the  people  who  do 
the  work  of  the  world,  I  want  to  see  how  other  people 
live.  I  want  to  hear  other  people's  opinions.  We  all  live 
in  a  groove  at  home  .  .  .  That's  the  first  thing,  and  when 
I've  seen  something  of  what  the  real  working  world  is 
like  I  might  be  able  to  say  whether  there  was  any  place 
in  it  for  me."  She  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  stirring  the 
dregs  of  her  coffee.  "And  as  long  as  I  live  at  home,  I 
don't  see  how  it's  to  be  done.  There  are  moments  when 
I  seriously  think  of  running  away  and  making  a  career 
for  myself." 


72  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Glancing  at  her  watch  she  called  to  a  passing  waiter 
for  her  bill.  Denys  picked  up  his  hat  and  walked  with 
her  to  the  door. 

"Are  you  going  home  now?"  he  asked. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  said  with  a  regretful  sigh,  "and  yet 
I  should  love  to  wander  about  and  explore.  This  is  my 
first  night  of  freedom  and  I  hate  to  think  of  going  back. 
Of  course  it  seems  nothing  to  you,  you're  a  man,  but 
it's  a  new  world  to  me.  Good-night."  She  held  out  her 
hand  and  then  added  with  an  apologetic  smile:  "How 
I  must  have  bored  you,  talking  about  myself  like  this !" 

"I've  never  enjoyed  an  evening  more,"  he  replied  truth- 
fully. "It's  a  new  sensation  to  find  anyone  as  dissatisfied 
with  life  as  I  am." 

"Well,  you  won't  tell  anyone  you've  met  me  here,  will 
you?" 

"Not  a  soul."  He  paused  and  then  added  diffidently: 
"I'd  be  the  last  man  to  interfere  with  your  independence, 
Lady  Daphne,  but  do  you  know,  I  think  you'd  better  let 
me  be  your  escort.  The  purlieus  of  Soho  at  ten  o'clock 
are  not  quite  the  place  for  a  young  girl  who  has  yet  to 
find  her  way  about  them."  He  saw  she  was  hesitating, 
and  added  casually:  "I  know  my  London  pretty  well 
by  night,  and  if  you  want  to  see  how  the  other  half  of 
the  world  lives  and  the  way  the  world's  work  goes  on 
and  how  it  looks  when  you're  in  bed,  I  may  be  able  to 
introduce  you  to  one  or  two  places  where  you  wouldn't 
be  admitted  by  yourself." 

"Are  you  sure  there's  nothing  you  want  to  do  instead?" 

"Quite  sure,  thanks.  We'll  go  across  Soho  Square  and 
Soho  Street  into  Oxford  Street  and  a  taxi  shall  bear  us 
into  the  unknown." 

Lady  Daphne  was  silent  till  they  reached  Oxford  Street. 
Then  she  exclaimed: 

"Don't  let's  take  a  taxi,  Mr.  Playfair,  let's  walk.     We 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  73 

can  see  so  much  more  if  we  walk,  and  I  want  to  have  a 
look  at  all  these  funny  little  streets." 

"It's  all  one  to  me,"  said  Denys.  "Look  here,  we  haven't 
decided  yet  where  we're  going  or  how  long  we're  going 
to  take  over  it.  When  do  you  propose  to  resume  habits 
of  domesticity?" 

"Oh,  not  for  hours  yet.    I've  got  a  latch-key." 

"Right;  then  we  can  map  out  our  evening.  You  must 
avoid  the  West-end  and  all  the  theatre  and  restaurant  area, 
or  it's  long  odds  you  may  run  into  someone  you  know, 
and  then  good-bye  to  freedom  for  evermore.  I  don't  rec- 
ommend north  of  the  Euston  Road  or  south  of  the  river; 
it's  very  dull  and  rather  squalid.  I  suggest  that  we  ex- 
plore some  of  the  less-known  and  more  populous  quarters 
of  Soho,  and  then — Have  you  ever  seen  a  newspaper 
brought  to  birth?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Then  we'll  call  on  the  Newsletter  and  I'll  take  you  over 
the  office.  I've  got  a  friend  there  who  adorns  the  editorial 
chair.  Then — have  you  ever  been  to  Covent  Garden  Mar- 
ket?" 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"I've  been  nowhere." 

"Well,  when  we've  finished  with  the  Newsletter  we  drive 
eastward  and  see  the  City  by  night.  It's  worth  it,  just 
by  way  of  contrast  with  what  it's  like  by  day,  and  the 
contrast  will  be  more  marked  after  leaving  Fleet  Street. 
That  will  fill  in  a  certain  amount  of  time.  I  don't  recom- 
mend Billingsgate  or  Leadenhall  or  Smithfield  in  the  early 
hours  of  the  morning,  but  you  shall  see  them  if  you  want 
to.  I  would  rather  suggest  picking  up  a  little  supper  some- 
where and  then  having  a  look  at  Covent  Garden.  After 
that  we'll  see  what  the  Embankment  can  do  in  the  way 
of  soup  kitchens  and  Salvation  Army  shelters  and 
suicide  bureaus,  and  then  it  will  be  time  to  think  sen- 


74  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

ously  of  returning  home  to  our  neglected  beds." 
As  he  sketched  out  his  programme,  Denys  began  to  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  the  escapade  and  to  feel  a  little  of  the 
excitement  and  enthusiasm  which  was  shining  in  Lady 
Daphne's  eyes.  Without  wasting  more  time  on  speech 
they  retraced  their  steps,  and  entered  Shaftesbury  Ave- 
nue. For  Lady  Daphne  the  next  hour  was  one  of  inex- 
haustible delight:  she  was  intoxicated  with  the  novelty 
of  the  narrow,  ill-lit  streets  crowded  with  picturesque  for- 
eigners speaking  in  strange  tongues,  the  windows  in  Seven 
Dials  filled  with  live-stock,  the  endless  succession  of  cafes 
and  curio  shops,  all  alike  and  yet  each  a  little  different 
from  the  last,  the  groups  of  black-haired  Italian  children 
dancing  to  the  music  of  a  piano-organ  while  their  fathers 
stood  smoking  in  shirt  sleeves  and  leaning  against  the 
door-posts,  and  their  mothers  busied  themselves  with  mar- 
keting for  vegetables,  meat,  and  fish  from  the  rows  of 
open  barrows  that  stretched  almost  from  side  to  side  of 
the  narrow  streets  and  made  walking  a  slow  and  uneasy 
method  of  progress.  Denys  had  spent  more  time  wandering 
about  the  streets  and  alleys  of  Soho  than  of  any  other 
neighbourhood,  and  was  able  to  follow  a  route  of  bewilder- 
ing perplexity,  chosen  principally  for  the  effectiveness  of 
its  contrasts  and  its  unlikeness  to  any  other  part  of  Lon- 
don. He  showed  Lady  Daphne  how  two  minutes'  walk 
from  a  brightly-lit,  teeming  thoroughfare  such  as  Regent 
Street,  characteristically  English  and  hall-marked  with 
opulence,  led  to  a  squalid  and  silent  court  where  an  olive- 
skinned  Spaniard  sat  nursing  her  child  on  a  doorstep,  how 
the  court  opened  on  to  a  narrow  street  which  led  in  turn 
to  a  ragmarket,  where  women  of  every  race  picked  over 
the  goods  exposed  for  sale  and  the  incongruous  presence 
of  a  stolid  policeman  was  the  only  reminder  that  the  scene 
was  laid  in  London  rather  than  Rome  or  Paris,  Naples  or 
Port  Said.  The  lateness  of  the  hour  was  the  only  argu- 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  75 

merit  that  he  could  use  to  keep  her  childish  eagerness  from 
prolonging  their  rambles  well  on  into  the  morning. 

"If  we're  to  reach  Fleet  Street  before  all  the  offices  are 
closed,"  he  had  to  remind  her,  "we  must  get  under  way 
at  once." 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  murmured  regretfully.,  and  then 
on  a  sudden  impulse:  "Promise  me  you'll  bring  me  here 
again  some  other  night." 

He  gave  a  laughing  promise  as  he  helped  her  into  a  taxi, 
and  they  drove  in  silence  to  the  office  of  the  Newsletter, 
Lady  Daphne  lost  to  the  world  in  the  depths  of  a  de- 
licious reverie.  At  the  office  Denys  laid  hands  on  an 
office-boy  and  despatched  him  with  a  message  to  the 
editor. 

"Take  the  card  in,"  he  said,  "and  tell  Mr.  Marjoribanks 
that  I  don't  want  to  disturb  him  but  that  I've  brought 
a.  lady  who's  never  been  over  a  newspaper-office,  and  if 
he  has  no  objection  I  should  like  to  show  her  round.  Tell 
him  I  won't  get  up  to  mischief,"  he  added. 

The  boy  disappeared  and  returned  almost  immediately 
with  ample  permission  for  Denys  to  roam  at  large  over 
the  office,  and  an  invitation  to  call  in  at  the  editor's  room 
before  leaving. 

For  half  an  hour  Lady  Daphne  spoke  no  word.  Room 
by  room  and  floor  after  floor,  she  explored  the  whole  build- 
ing, with  wide-open  eyes  that  missed  nothing,  and  head 
attentively  bent  to  catch  the  murmured  explanation  which 
Denys  poured  into  her  ear.  The  office  was  in  a  state  of 
suppressed  bustle  and  half -heard  excitement,  the  compro- 
mise effected  between  a  theory  that  writing  and  thinking 
must  be  done  in  quiet  and  that  machinery  is  inseparable 
from  noise.  He  showed  her  the  pill-box  rooms  of  the 
leader-writer,  sparsely  furnished  with  roll-top  desks,  re- 
volving chairs,  telephones  and  electric  fans ;  the  long  office 
where  a  harassed  sub-editor  strove  to  reduce  an  over-set 


76  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

paper  to  the  limits  of  a  normal  issue ;  the  composing-room 
brilliantly  lit  and  insufferably  hot,  with  consumptive-look- 
ing compositors  setting  up  headlines  by  hand.  For  a  while 
they  observed  the  marvellous  mechanism  of  the  composing- 
machines  at  work  and — until  the  noise  drove  them  down- 
stairs again — watched  the  first  casting  of  the  type,  and 
from  that  the  making  of  the  moulds,  and  from  those  the 
final  casting  of  the  plates.  As  they  walked  downstairs 
to  call  on  the  editor,  they  could  hear  through  double  par- 
titions the  muffled  monotone  of  a  proof-reader's  voice: 
hurrying  office-boys  dashed  to  and  fro  with  damp  slips 
of  proof  and  flimsy  late  "Exchange"  telegrams,  and  then 
they  were  once  more  in  silence  and  a  tall  Yorkshireman 
was  asking  Lady  Daphne  her  impressions  of  a  newspaper- 
office  on  the  first  visit. 

It  was  not  until  the  rotaries  were  finally  at  work,  not 
until  a  seemingly  unending  roll  of  white  paper  had  begun 
to  vanish  under  a  whirling  drum,  and  a  moist  early  copy 
of  the  Newsletter  had  been  placed  in  her  hand,  miracu- 
lously printed,  folded  and  trimmed,  not  until  she  had  read 
that  among  those  present  at  that  hour  at  Lady  Stapleton's 
ball  were  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Parkstone  and  Lady 
Daphne  Grayling,  that  she  allowed  herself  to  be  led  into 
Fleet  Street  and  assisted  into  a  taxi  from  the  stand  by 
St.  Clement  Dane's  church. 

"You  appear  to  have  established  an  alibi  all  right,"  said 
Denys.  "When  your  parents  charge  you  with  wandering 
through  the  midnight  streets  of -London  in  company  with 
a  total  stranger,  you  can  point  out  that,  on  the  authority 
of  no  less  a  journal  than  the  Newsletter,  you  were  present 
with  them  at  Lady  Stapleton's  ball.  Perhaps  you  will  be, 
perhaps  it  was  just  'intelligent  anticipation.'  I  shall  prob- 
ably end  up  the  evening  there:  I  have  not  missed  my  final 
supper  of  two  poached  eggs  at  the  Ritz  for  weeks,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  begin  now." 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  77 

She  was  almost  too  much  occupied  with  her  own  thoughts 
to  hear  him. 

"Those  machines,"  she  said,  half  to  herself,  "how  many 
revolutions  a  minute  ?  It  doesn't  matter,  but  it  explains  all 
my  grumblings  at  dinner.  Nowadays  everything  is  done 
by  machinery  and  done  so  quickly  that  some  of  us  have 
an  enormous  lot  of  time  on  our  hands  and  we  simply  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  ourselves.  I  came  up  from  Devon- 
shire last  week:  thirty  miles  an  hour  to  the  station,  sixty 
miles  an  hour  in  the  train.  A  century  ago  I  should  have 
come  by  coach  at — what — twelve  miles  an  hour  the  whole 
way  if  we  were  making  a  record,  and  several  nights  on 
the  road.  And  I  should  probably  spend  half  my  time  spin- 
ning and  sewing  and  doing  all  the  things  that  are  done  by 
machinery  nowadays.  There  must  be  a  whole  heap  of  girls 
in  just  the  same  position. 

"There  are,  and  it's  something  not  to  be  one  of  the  girls 
with  a  great  deal  of  leisure  and  tolerable  uncertainty  where 
the  next  meal  is  coming  from." 

"I  suppose  so.  Yet,  I  don't  know,  it  would  at  least  give 
an  interest  to  life.  I  feel  morally  overfed." 

"Better  than  being  physically  hungry." 

"Were  you  ever  that?" 

"Twice,"  said  Denys  briefly.    "I  don't  want  it  again." 

At  Tower  Bridge  they  got  out  and  stood  for  a  moment 
watching  the  long  narrow  barges  gliding  silently  through 
the  water.  At  her  suggestion  the  taxi  was  dismissed,  and 
for  a  while  they  wandered  through  the  lifeless  streets. 
Trinity  Square,  the  Customs  House  and  Monument  were 
wrapped  in  an  unreal  and  ghostly  silence;  at  the  Royal 
Exchange  they  met  a  stream  of  motor-omnibuses  carrying 
their  last  passengers  to  Liverpool  Street  Station;  on  the 
Embankment  the  brightly-lit,  two-storeyed  trams  were  col- 
lecting belated  suburbans  for  delivery  in  the  unlovely  wilds 
of  South  London.  It  was  too  early  for  the  market  in 


78  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Covent  Garden,  but  in  a  side  street  off  the  Strand  Lady 
Daphne  had  her  first  and  only  meal  off  a  coffee-stall,  and 
as  they  walked  northwards,  the  streets  all  round  the  mar- 
ket were  blocked  with  towering  produce-carts.  Little  was 
said  as  they  strolled  through  the  dim,  open  space  round 
the  market,  inhaling  the  sour,  earthly  smell  of  refuse  vege- 
tation; occasionally  Denys  was  recognised  and  accosted  by 
a  friendly  porter  or  policeman,  and  in  Garrick  Street  he 
suggested  taking  Lady  Daphne  back  to  Berkeley  Square 
in  the  solitary  three-wheeled  hanson  which  stands  patiently 
night  after  night  at  the  door  of  the  Garrick  Club.  Once 
more  she  preferred  walking,  and  they  made  their  way 
through  Leicester  Square  and  along  Piccadilly  in  almost 
unbroken  silence. 

The  excitement  of  their  escapade  was  wearing  off  and 
both  had  grown  reflective  as  their  minds  dwelt  on  the  in- 
congruity of  the  other's  position.  The  variety  and  reality 
of  his  life  were  the  qualities  which  Daphne  envied  him 
and  found  most  wanting  in  the  men  who  gathered  under 
her  mother's  roof  in  Berkeley  Square,  and  with  all  his 
untrammelled  possibilities  he  was  yearning  for  just  that 
slothful  wealth  and  sluggish  ease  which  made  her  own  ex- 
istence seem  so  hopeless  and  wasted.  Wandering  west- 
ward along  the  Embankment  they  had  dropped  into  poli- 
tics, and  his  intimate  knowledge  and  fearless  originality 
had  delighted  her  by  contrast  with  such  unimaginative,  offi- 
cial views  as  she  was  permitted  occasionally  to  hear  from 
her  father's  friends.  But  the  originality  and  knowledge 
were  those  of  a  student,  and  his  heart  was  buried  in  the 
library  where  his  own  unfinished  books  lay  in  long,  dusty 
neglect.  He  lacked  every  spark  of  her  own  passionate 
enthusiasm  and  she  found  herself  bemoaning  the  wasted 
talent  and  conjuring  up  dream  pictures  of  a  world  con- 
quered and  reformed  if  he  would  but  submit  to  her 
inspiration. 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  79 

Thoughtfully  smoking  as  he  walked,  Denys  smiled  at 
the  irony  which  called  her  forth  from  the  restful,  scholarly 
leisure  he  had  almost  forgotten,  and  unsettled  her  mind 
with  doubts  and  aspirations.  An  over-sensitive  conscience 
was  destroying  her  happiness  as  it  had  destroyed  his  own 
and  his  father's :  but  for  that  he  might  be  sitting  unharassed 
and  at  ease  in  the  castle  that  had  been  sold  to  provide 
funds  for  an  incendiary  political  league.  Recognising  her 
talent  for  self-questioning  and  torment,  he  pitied  her  pro- 
foundly. It  was  impossible  for  anyone  to  look  into  the 
soft  depths  of  her  brown  eyes,  to  see  the  wistful  droop  of 
the  mouth,  without  wanting  to  comfort  and  be  kind  to 
her:  and  Denys  felt  strong  sympathy  with  anyone  who 
shared  his  sentiment  of  rebellion  against  the  whole  order 
of  an  ill-contrived  universe. 

For  the  time  Lady  Daphne  was  standing  in  no  need  of 
comfort ;  her  eyes  were  still  bright  with  the  excitement 
and  novelty  of  her  adventure,  a  smile  of  happy  content- 
ment played  round  her  mouth  and  pressed  tiny  dimples 
into  her  cheeks.  She  was  charmed  with  her  new  friend 
and  delighted  to  meet  a  man  who  could  talk  as  frankly 
and  widely  and  intimately  as  Denys  had  done.  There  was 
hardly  a  topic  they  had  left  untouched  in  the  course  of 
their  wanderings  in  Soho  or  the  City;  what  had  been  over- 
looked in  the  "Reine  Pedauque"  seemed  to  have  been 
picked  up  in  the  Newsletter  office.  It  was  incredible  that 
she  had  never  exchanged  a  word  with  him  till  nine  o'clock 
that  night:  like  her  cousin  and  her  grandfather,  like  the 
friends  he  had  made  at  Oxford  and  the  men  with  whom 
his  books  and  his  work  brought  him  in  contact,  she  had 
surrendered  unconsciously  to  the  compelling  magnetism  of 
the  dreamy,  deep-set  eyes  and  melodious  voice.  Intimately 
as  she  had  unburdened  herself  to  him,  knowing  that  he  would 
understand  her,  she  knew  also  that  she  would  on  occasion 
come  to  him  for  sympathy  and  advice  as  to  no  other  man. 


8o  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

As  they  turned  from  Piccadilly  into  Berkeley  Street,  their 
minds,  travelling  by  different  roads,  came  to  the  same  point 
at  the  same  moment. 

"Poor  Maurice !"  said  Daphne.  "Between  us  I'm  afraid 
we've  rather  spoilt  his  party." 

"Poor  Maurice,  yes,"  said  Denys.  He  had  seen  enough 
of  Daphne  to  appreciate  the  ludicrous  unsuitability  of  their 
engagement:  in  time  Daphne  too  would  appreciate  it  and 
screw  up  her  courage  to  tell  him  her  mind  was  changed. 
And  even  Maurice  had  his  share  of  sensitiveness.  "I 
think  it  was  worth  it,  though." 

"I  know  it  was,  but  you  haven't  solved  my  Unemployed 
Problem  for  me  yet." 

"Have  you  ever  taken  any  part  in  your  father's  work?" 

"The  Birth  Rate  Commission?" 

"Well,  social  conditions  generally.  If  you  want  to  find 
out  how  the  other  half  of  the  world  lives,  there's  your 
opportunity,  and  I  should  think  your  father  would  sup- 
port any  suggestion  you  might  make  in  favour  of  investi- 
gating at  first  hand.  You  certainly  won't  find  time  hang- 
ing on  your  hands  if  once  you  get  infected." 

"I  wonder  if  I  should  like  it." 

"It  will  make  you  very  unhappy,  because  you'll  take  it 
to  heart  instead  of  studying  it  as  so  much  economic  data. 
You'll  learn  the  frightful  cost  of  civilisation,  the  appalling 
price  that  other  people  have  to  pay  in  death  and  ill-health 
and  misery  and  vice,  and  injustice,  which  is  harder  to 
bear  than  any  of  them,  to  purchase  that  state  of  society 
in  which  you  and  I  live  with  tolerable  comfort  and  en- 
joyment. It'll  make  you  miserable,  but  it  may  keep  you 
from  running  away." 

"I'm  afraid  I  should  never  have  the  courage  to  do  that." 

"I  hope  not." 

"I'm  only  brave  in  my  dreams." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.     Your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams 


DINNER  FOR  TWO  81 

and  your  young  men  shall  see  visions,  and  when  a  vision- 
ary is  inspired  by  a  conscience  you  get  a  crusader.  Good- 
night, Lady  Daphne;  we  shall  meet  again  before  long." 


CHAPTER  IV 

SHEILA  TAKES  POLITICS  UNDER  HER  PROTECTION 

"The  great  advantage  which  women  have  in  the  world  is  that  most 
women  understand  men  a  vast  deal  better  than  any  man  under- 
stands women.  Since  knowledge  is  power,  woman  has  a  control 
over  man  which  man  never  has  over  her.  To  man  she  is  always,  in 
the  last  resort,  untamable,  and  unintelligible,  whereas  to  her  man  is 
a  simple,  if  massive,  creature  whose  subtleties,  when  occasionally  he 
is  subtle,  are  much  more  intelligible  to  her  than  to  other  men. 
There  is  no  complexity  of  the  male  character  which  the  woman  does 
not  understand  and  there  is  scarcely  any  complication  of  the  fem- 
inine character  which  the  man  can  really  unravel.  This  accounts 
for  the  good  humour  with  which  a  vast  majority  of  women  accept 
the  crude,  mechanical  power  which  man  exercises  by  his  laws  and 
political  devices." 

J.  A.  SPENDER:  "COMMENTS  OF  BAGSHOT"  (FIRST  SERIES). 

"THAT'S  one  of  the  narrowest  things  even  I've  brought 
off." 

Preceded  by  a  delicate  perfume  of  Parma  violets,  fol- 
lowed and  steadied  by  the  anxious  hand  of  a  paternal 
porter,  Sheila  Fading  had  burst  into  the  railway  carriage 
as  the  train  rapidly  gathered  motion,  and  now  settled  down 
with  the  utmost  sangfroid  to  sort  herself,  her  parasol,  and 
jewel-case  from  the  confused  tangle  in  the  far  end  of 
the  compartment.  Denys  looked  up  at  the  intruder.  Ten 
days  had  passed  since  his  night  of  wandering  with  Daphne, 
and  he  was  on  his  way  to  spend  the  week-end  at  Oxford. 

"I  always  said  you  weren't  fit  to  travel  alone,  Miss 
Sheila,"  he  remarked,  putting  down  his  paper.  "Some 
day  when  you've  been  cut  in  two  and  carried  to  two 
different  hospitals,  the  top  half  of  you  will  send  for  me 
to  admit  I  was  right." 

82 


SHEILA  TAKES  UP  POLITICS  83 

Sheila  closed  her  eyes  and  folded  her  hands  as  in  prayer. 

"Of  course  this  is  pure  providence,  naked  and  un- 
ashamed. God  is  good;  it's  more  than  even  I  deserve. 
A  familiar  friend  to  talk  to,  a  familiar  toe  to  tread  on. 
...  I  hope  I  didn't  hurt  you,  but  you  know  it  had  no 
business  to  be  where  it  was,  just  where  I  wanted  to  tumble 
down.  .  .  .  What  was  I  saying?" 

"You  were  running  through  some  of  my  more  solid 
if  less  brilliant  qualities,  and  you  stopped  because  you 
noticed  I  wasn't  smoking  and  the  omission  struck  you  as 
unusual.  I'm  all  right  now,  you  can  go  on.  'A  familiar 
hand  to  push  you  on  to  the  platform  when  you  find  a 
station  that  takes  your  fancy.'  Where  are  you  going  tOj 
and  why  don't  you  allow  proper  time  to  catch  a  train?" 

Opening  her  eyes  once  more  she  settled  herself  in  her 
corner. 

"If  you're  going  to  sit  in  judgment  on  me  I  shall  pull 
the  communication-cord  and  fine  you  not  exceeding  five 
pounds.  I  arrived  in  plenty  of  time.  Found  myself  a 
nice  unoccupied  first-class  smoking  carriage,  settled  down 
to  look  at  the  papers,  and  then  who  of  all  people  should 
blow  in  but  Maurice,  our  only  Maurice,  the  happily  unique  1 
And  I'm  going  to  have  three  solid  days  with  him  at 
Riversley  as  it  is." 

"Serves  you  right  for  going  into  a  smoker,"  said  Denys 
severely. 

"But,  my  dear,"  her  hands  were  spread  out  in  deprecat- 
ing remonstrance,  "the  other  carriages  were  filled  with 
crawling  humanity,  all  of  it  under  two,  sticky,  horrid  little 
things.  Ugh!  there  must  be  a  baby  show  down  the  line 
somewhere.  I  suppose  you're  going  to  the  Badstows'  too  ?" 

"No  such  cause  for  alarm." 

"But  why  not?  You'd  just  round  off  the  party  and 
bring  in  some  much-needed  fresh  blood.  It's  an  awful 
gathering  of  the  clan.  Little  Lord  Badstow,  little  Lady 


84  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Badstow,  and  our  Maurice;  Father  Time  and  me;  Uncle 
Herbert,  Aunt  Margaret,  and  Daphne.  Do  come!  I'll 
make  it  all  right,  and  when  you've  saved  me  from  Aunt 
Margaret  and  Maurice  I'll  let  you  talk  to  Daphne." 

"Even  on  your  introduction  I'm  afraid  I  should  be  re- 
garded with  suspicion." 

"But  you  know  everybody." 

"Only  Maurice  and  your  grandfather  and  yourself." 

"And  Daphne." 

"Oh,  your  cousin  Lady  Daphne;  yes,  I  have  met  her." 

"Excellent!  Oh,  that  really  was  admirable,  Mr.  Play- 
fair.  What  were  you  doing  last  Thursday  night  ?" 

"Wasn't  that  the  night  of  Lady  Stapleton's  ball?" 

"Yes,  but  you  weren't  there,  and  I  was.  Where  were 
you?" 

"Oh,  wandering  about" 

"Alone?  No,  of  course  not.  It's  all  right,  Daphne 
told  me  all  about  it  and  I  won't  give  you  away.  Mr. 
Playfair,  don't  you  think  Daphne's  one  of  the  most  ador- 
able things  you've  ever  met?  No  answer.  Dear,  tactful., 
reticent  creature  doesn't  like  to  commit  itself.  Well,  you 
do  anyhow,  or  if  you  don't  it  doesn't  say  much  for  your 
taste  in  looks.  My  dear,  she's  the  most  beautiful  girl 
you're  ever  likely  to  meet  in  all  your  born  days.  Do  you 
appreciate  that?" 

"Yes." 

"Right.  Then  don't  you  think  it  perfectly  monstrous 
for  that — that  thing  Maurice  to  go  and  think  it's  going 
to  marry  her?" 

Denys  chivalrously  assumed  the  defensive  on  his  absent 
friend's  behalf. 

"What's  wrong  with  Maurice?  He's  a  great  friend  of 
mine  and  I  like  him  immensely.  Very  kind-hearted  and 
good-natured,  very  easy  to  get  on  with.  There's  no  reason 
why  he  and  Lady  Daphne  shouldn't  hit  it  off  all  right." 


SHEILA  TAKES  UP  POLITICS  85 

"He  won't  get  the  chance." 

"Who'll  stop  him?" 

"I  shall.  Ever  since  I  got  back  to  England  I've  de- 
veloped quite  a  faculty  for  saving  people  from  themselves. 
I'm  going  to  save  Daphne  if  I  die  in  the  attempt.  Heaven 
knows  what  possessed  him  ever  to  propose  to  her,  let  alone 
her  accepting  him." 

"I  suppose  he  felt  he  must  marry  into  the  family.  Very 
laudable  ambition  I  call  it." 

Sheila  leant  back  and  surveyed  him  with  an  amused 
smile. 

"Now  what  exactly  does  that  mean,  Mr.  Playfair?" 

"Exactly  what  it  says."  It  was  now  ancient  history, 
but  at  the  time  Denys  had  been  carefully  posted  by  Maurice 
in  the  progress  of  his  attachment  to  Sheila  up  to  the 
day  when  he  had  proposed  and  been  dismissed  with  con- 
tumely. 

"If  Maurice  ever  told  you  ....  Well,  he  did,  and 
what's  more,  I'd  make  him  do  it  again  for  two  pins." 

"You  won't  get  the  chance." 

"Chance,  indeed!  Maurice  is  the  sort  of  thing  that 
proposes  at  sight." 

"An  amiable  weakness.  But  in  fairness  to  Maurice," 
he  added  gently,  "you  should  reserve  your  criticisms  till 
he's  present  to  answer  them." 

"We'll  drop  the  subject  the  moment  you  see  that  he  isn't 
to  be  allowed  to  marry  Daphne." 

"Surely  that's  a  matter  for  him  to  settle  with  your 
cousin." 

"It's  a  matter  he  won't  have  any  chance  of  settling. 
We're  going  to  settle  it  for  them." 

"Leave  me  out,  please.  I'm  not  worthy  of  being  coupled 
with  you." 

"I  never  supposed  you  were,"  said  Sheila  pleasantly,  "but 
I  may  be  able  to  make  use  of  you." 


86  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"Nous  verrons,  as  the  French  say." 

Sheila  placed  her  feet  on  the  cushion  of  the  seat  oppo- 
site her,  borrowed  a  handkerchief  to  dust  the  patent  leather 
toes  of  her  shoes,  and  cast  about  for  a  source  of  amuse- 
ment that  would  last  for  the  rest  of  the  journey.  The 
previous  week's  meeting  at  La  Reine  had  saved  her  the 
trouble  of  effecting  a  formal  introduction,  and  for  the 
present  it  was  not  necessary  for  her  influence  to  be  felt. 
The  first  act  was  opening  the  more  favourably  on  that 
account,  and  though  it  gratified  her  despotic  spirit  to 
order  the  exits  and  entrances,  arrange  the  business,  and 
teach  the  players  how  to  speak  their  lines,  she  was  suffi- 
cient of  an  artist  to  refrain  from  intervention  if  their  indi- 
vidual interpretation  of  the  parts  showed  any  natural  vigour 
or  originality.  The  idea  had  come  to  her  at  Lady  Park- 
stone's  ball:  she  was  sitting  out  with  Denys  and  asking 
him  his  opinion  of  her  cousin,  whom  he  had  just  seen 
for  the  first  time.  His  admiration  had  been  rhapsodical, 
from  anyone  else  it  would  have  been  exaggerated  and 
absurd,  about  anyone  else  she  would  have  resented  it.  But 
the  world  was  encouraged  to  share  her  devotion  to  Daphne, 
and  as  he  poured  forth  his  praises  of  her  eyes  and  hair, 
Sheila  began  fo  wonder  whether  the  problem  of  Maurice 
had  not  solved  itself.  The  idea  could  easily  be  tested: 
'  she  had  only  to  bring  the  two  together  and  watch  the  effect 
on  Daphne. 

The  encounter,  though  not  of  her  contriving,  had  ex- 
ceeded her  most  sanguine  hopes.  Denys  must  have  been 
in  good  conversational  feather  to  have  impressed  the  reti- 
cent Daphne  so  deeply.  Sheila  had  been  treated  to  the 
whole  story  within  twelve  hours  of  its  conclusion:  her 
eyes  bright  with  the  memory,  Daphne  had  spoken  as  though 
her  meeting  had  been  with  one  from  another  world. 
Sheila's  affectation  of  indifference  only  served  as  a  fresh 
stimulus :  "He  seems  to  have  talked  'about  himself  a  good 


SHEILA  TAKES  UP  POLITICS  87 

deal,"  was  her  languid  comment.  "But  you  should  have 
heard  him,  Sheila,"  was  the  reply,  and  she  had  to  sub- 
mit to  an  interminable  second-hand  recital  of  ancient  and 
modern  politics  as  Denys  had  discoursed  of  them  in  their 
leisurely  ramble  westward  from  Tower  Bridge.  A  few 
more  such  meetings  and  Maurice's  suit  would  be  lost  by 
default:  and  there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  securing  that 
the  meetings  took  place.  Her  grandfather  had  already 
approached  Lord  Parkstone  with  a  view  to  finding  Denys 
some  more  congenial  occupation  than  his  directorship  of 
the  Anglo-Hibernian.  When  she  put  the  idea  in  his  mind, 
it  had  been  without  thought  of  Daphne;  she  was  indulg- 
ing a  child's  craving  to  see  everyone  as  happy  as  herself. 
Her  disinterested  action  was  bearing  good  fruit  already: 
whatever  other  results  Sir  William's  appeal  might  pro- 
duce, it  would  have  the  effect  of  establishing  some  degree 
of  intimacy  between  Denys  and  the  Parkstones.  That 
conceded,  she  was  prepared  to  let  Daphne  work  out  her 
own  salvation  with  Denys  at  hand  eager  to  help  her. 

"If  you  aren't  going  to  the  Badstows',"  she  began  after 
a  short  silence,  "you  might  at  least  tell  me  where  you 
are  going.  Unless  it's  anything  very  discreditable." 

Denys  prepared  himself  for  a  searching  examination. 

"I'm  going  up  to  Oxford  for  the  week-end,  to  stay  with 
a  learned,  ancient  historian." 

"Where?" 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know?" 

"I  might  want  to  send  hourly  wires  to  ask  how  you 
were." 

"Oh,  very  well  then.     New  College." 

"It  sounds  dull;  you'd  much  better  get  out  and  come 
to  the  Badstows'." 

"But  it's  absolutely  essential  that  I  should  spend  this 
week-end  in  Oxford." 

"Why?      Oxford's    had    to    get    on    without    you    for 


88  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

several    years,    it    could     surely    wait    another    week." 

"It  would  be  too  late  then.  I've  been  offered  an  appoint- 
ment and  I've  got  to  give  my  answer  on  Monday,  so  be- 
tween now  and  then  I've  got  to  do  the  thing  I  most  hate 
doing,  making  up  my  own  mind." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  a  merchant  prince  and  went 
off  with  Father  Time  twice  a  week  to  lunch  with  the 
Rothschilds." 

"Hardly  that,  and  I  was  never  publicly  acclaimed  as  a 
captain  of  commerce;  but  whatever  I  was  I'm  not  that 
now.  The  City  knows  me  no  more." 

He  spoke  with  a  note  of  despair  in  his  voice  as  though 
shrinking  from  the  prospect  of  another  fresh  start. 

"What  happened?"  asked  Sheila,  becoming  interested. 

"They  would  tell  you  I  resigned  because  I  couldn't 
get  my  own  way ;  I  tell  you  that  they're  steering  straight 
for  the  rocks  and  I'm  not  going  to  risk  a  Board  of  Trade 
Enquiry,  so  I  got  out  before  the  crash,  as  they  wouldn't 
alter  their  course.  Oh,  yes,  and  we  all  lost  our  tempers 
and  behaved  like  children,  and  it  was  a  sickening  business 
generally.  And  there's  one  cherished  ex-colleague  of  mine 
going  about  ...  I  hope  I  don't  meet  him  on  a  dark 
night  in  a  lonely  lane;  he'll  put  a  knife  in  my  back  as 
sure  as  fate.  I've  never  seen  a  man  look  more  murderous." 

"What  had  you  done?" 

"I  told  him  he  was  misleading  the  board,  and  that  upset 
him.  And  I  told  the  board  if  they  were  worth  a  penny 
in  the  pound  of  the  fees  they  drew  they'd  know  enough 
not  to  believe  him,  and  that  upset  them.  And  I  told  the 
world  at  large  that  our  balance  sheet  was  as  near  fraudu- 
lent as  it  was  safe  to  make  it  with  auditors  in  their  dot- 
age and  wall-eyed  shareholders.  And  I  told  the  manag- 
ing director  that  the  profits  wouldn't  have  been  so  dis- 
gracefully inflated  if  he  weren't  paid  a  percentage  on 
them.  .  ." 


SHEILA  TAKES  UP  POLITICS  89, 

"Who's  the  managing  director?" 

"Fellow  called  Wilmot." 

"The  man  with  the  knife  in  the  lonely  lane?" 

"Yes.  And  generally  I  behaved  like  a  sweep  and  lost 
my  temper  and  handed  in  my  resignation.  It  was  all  true, 
but  I'd  no  business  to  talk  like  that,  and  I've  not  yet 
finished  being  ashamed  of  myself."  He  sighed  and  looked 
out  of  the  window.  "And  now  back  to  Oxford  and  start 
all  over  again.  It  feels  like  being  put  back  into  knicker- 
bockers and  fed  on  bread  and  milk  and  sent  to  bed  at 
six.  I  thought  the  Oxford  phase  was  closed." 

"You're  not  to  smoke  any  more,  it  only  makes  you 
cough."  His  tobacco  pouch  was  lying  beside  him  on  the 
seat  and  Sheila  dexteriously  confiscated  it.  "You  know, 
you're  rather  hard  to  please.  The  whole  way  back  from 
Gib.  you  were  grumbling  because  you  hated  the  work 
you  were  doing  and  were  ready  to  bite  your  own  head 
off  for  giving  up  your  Fellowship,  and  now  that  you've 
got  the  chance  of  going  back  you  don't  know  if  you  want 
to  take  it." 

"I  do — I  mean,  I  do  want  to  take  it." 

"Very  well,  then,  what's  worrying  you?  Why  did  you 
ever  give  it  up?" 

"What  does  a  research  Fellowship  lead  to?" 

"What  do  you  want  it  to  lead  to?" 

"There's  no  scope  in  Oxford  ..." 

"What  do  you  want  scope  for?" 

For  a  moment  Sheila  fancied  herself  within  measurable 
distance  of  understanding  him:  on  board  she  had  assid- 
uously tried  to  discover  what  it  was  that  made  him  rest- 
less and  discontented  with  life,  what  were  the  unsatisfied 
ambitions  that  haunted  him.  To  her,  as  to  Daphne,  he  had 
replied  with  a  smile  that  old  men  dreamed  dreams  and 
young  men  saw  visions.  Since  her  discovery  of  the  tragic 
history  connected  with  his  grandfather  she  had  expended 


90  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

on  his  account  a  sum  of  curiosity  of  which  she  frankly 
admitted  he  was  unworthy.  Such  direct  questioning,  how- 
ever, was  little  calculated  to  overcome  his  natural  reserve. 

"If  you  take  this  appointment,  when  do  you  start  work?" 

"At  the  beginning  of  the  October  term." 

"And  what  will  you  do  till  then?" 

"Oh,  a  hundred  and  one  things.  Dispose  of  the  lease 
of  my  flat,  sell  my  furniture,  store  my  books,  and  say 
good-bye  to  London.  Then  I  might  go  and  live  at  some 
place  like  Fontainbleau  and  see  if  I  can't  finish  the  monu- 
mental work  I've  got  on  hand  at  present." 

"But  why  leave  London  ?" 

"How  long  does  it  take  for  a  pipe  to  empty  a  thou- 
sand-gallon tank  when  the  pipe  accommodates  a  hundred 
gallons  a  minute  and  the  tank  is  only  half  full  and  there's 
nothing  coming  into  it?  I'll  lend  you  a  pencil  and  the 
back  page  of  the  Westminster  if  you  can't  do  it  in  your 
head.  I  can't  afford  to  live  in  London  after  throwing 
up  the  Anglo-Hibernian." 

"You  could  make  a  living  by  conducting  the  female  por- 
tion of  the  aristocracy  round  London  in  the  small  hours 
of  the  morning,  without  the  parents'  knowledge.  Daphne 
would  let  you  give  her  as  a  reference." 

She  spoke  lightly,  but  the  news  that  he  was  leaving 
London  threatened  to  throw  her  own  schemes  seriously 
out  of  gear  and  to  bring  back  the  Maurice  problem  in  all 
its  old  intensity.  Of  course  in  his  present  mood  the  lot 
would  fall  to  the  highest  bidder:  if  her  grandfather  and 
uncle  made  it  worth  his  while,  the  lectureship  would  be 
declined;  if  their  price  were  too  low  or  their  bidding  too 
dilatory,  Oxford  would  engulf  him,  and  she  would  have 
to  face  the  frustration  of  what  she  was  beginning  to  re- 
gard as  a  perfect  match.  She  blamed  herself  for  not 
keeping  her  grandfather  more  attentive  to  her  orders ;  ulti- 
mately, of  course,  he  would  find  whatever  she  told  him 


SHEILA  TAKES  UP  POLITICS  91 

to  find;  she  could  truthfully  promise  Denys  a  more  lucra- 
tive position  than  anything  Oxford  offered,  but  she  was 
unwilling  to  let  her  own  agency  intrude  for  the  purpose 
of  fostering  an  intimacy  which  was  shaping  so  favour- 
ably without  her  intervention.  Till  Monday  morning  she 
and  the  University  of  Oxford  would  dispute  possession 
of  the  body,  and  as  it  lay  with  her  to  open  the  attack 
she  lost  no  time  in  disparaging  the  lectureship  by  patron- 
ising praise  of  his  half-formed  decision. 

"Seriously,  I  think  you'd  be  wise  to  go  back.  .  .  I 
don't  believe  you've  ever  been  happy  since  you  resigned 
your  Fellowship." 

"Or  for  a  long  time  before,  that's  the  trouble.  And 
I  see  no  reason  for  thinking  I  shall  be  deliriously  happj; 
if  I  do  go  back." 

"But  what  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  with  an  affectation 
of  impatience.  "You'll  have  leisure  and  comfort  and  a 
competence  and  the  only  kind  of  work  you  like.  You 
can  dream  out  your  dreams  and  see  your  visions  ..." 

"No !" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Then  I  can't  help  you." 

"No  one  can  help  me." 

Sheila  prepared  to  try  him  with  a  fresh  fly. 

"I  met  a  man  the  other  night  who  knew  you,  a  Regius 
Professor  of  something  or  other — Martineau,  his  name 
was.  Did  you  know  that  you  were  one  of  the  most  bril- 
liant of  the  coming  school  of  historians?  Nor  did  I,  but 
he  said  so,  and  as  he's  a  Regius  Professor  I  suppose  it 
must  be  true.  He  wanted  to  know  what  had  happened 
to  you  and  why  you  weren't  going  on  with  your  work. 
I  told  him  you  were  rather  a  dear,  but  that  I  didn't  know 
what  your  books  were  or  why  you'd  forsaken  them,  and 
wasn't  particularly  curious  to  find  out.  So  he  told  me 
to  read  'Social  Decay  in  the  Roman  Empire/  and  I  prom- 


92  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

ised  to  read  it  before  I  went  to  bed;  and  he  told  me  it 
was  in  two  fat,  stodgy  volumes,  and  there  was  a  third 
to  come,  and  I  told  him  I'd  wait  till  the  third  came,  be- 
cause I  didn't  like  being  interrupted  when  I  was  improv- 
ing my  mind.  Oh!  and  he  was  rather  sweet:  he  said  my 
mind  was  incapable  of  improvement.  You  never  say  things 
like  that." 

"Because,  in  spite  of  everything,  I  hope  it's  not  true." 

"Obvious.    That  wasn't  what  he  meant." 

"I'll  ask  him;  he's  the  man  I'm  going  to  stay  with." 

"Well,  you  haven't  told  me  why  the  third  volume  isn't 
written  yet." 

Denys  held  out  his  hand  for  the  tobacco  pouch. 

"It'll  mean  smoking  cigarettes  otherwise,"  he  warned 
her,  "and  I'm  forbidden  to  do  that.  Oh,  I  got  tired  of 
the  Roman  Empire  and  its  social  conditions.  At  least, 
no,  I  didn't  get  tired,  but  there  was  something  unreal  in 
spending  my  whole  life  over  politics  nearly  two  thousand 
years  old — another  race,  another  faith,  another  language, 
other  prejudices  and  passions — when  within  sixty  miles  of 
Oxford  another  empire — the  strangest  in  history — was  be- 
ing governed  and  misgoverned  under  my  eyes  by  men  of 
approximately  my  race  and  tongue  and  intellectual  out- 
look. I  didn't  want  to  leave  Oxford,  but  London  seemed 
to  be  calling  ..." 

His  eyes  had  grown  dreamy  and  his  voice  reflective. 

Sheila  waited,  but  his  thoughts  were  far  away  and  she 
had  to  bring  him  to  earth. 

"But  you  never  thought  of  taking  up  politics  as  a  pro- 
fession?" she  asked  by  way  of  prompting. 

Denys  shrank  into  himself  at  her  voice,  as  though  con- 
scious that  he  was  thinking  aloud. 

"Profession,  no.     Politics  aren't  a  profession.  ..." 

"Career,  then." 

"Nor    even    a    career.      They're    a    faith,    a    duty,    a 


SHEILA  TAKES  UP  POLITICS  93 

vision,    a    crusade,    whatever    you    like    to    make    them." 

"Usually  a  bore,"  said  Sheila  indifferently.  "I  thought 
we'd  agreed  on  that  on  board.  You  told  me  that  no  man 
of  just  mind  would  lower  himself  to  the  exaggeration,  the 
false  issues  and  appeals  to  prejudice  which  were  insep- 
arable from  party  politics.  Your  words,  not  mine,"  she 
added;  "I  could  have  expressed  myself  in  half  the  num- 
ber." 

"I'm  sure  you  could.  Yet  ...  I  don't  know.  I  tried 
to  show  you  that  politics  could  be  made  as  thrilling  as 
a  melodrama  and  as  romantic  as  a  novel  of  Walter  Scott's 
...  in  any  country  and  at  any  time,  provided  you  found 
a  lost  cause  to  champion." 

To  her  delight  Sheila  found  she  had  revived  the  atmos- 
phere of  their  last  evening  together;  he  had  played  within 
half  a  dozen  bars  of  the  place  where  before  he  had  broken 
off;  with  adroit  handling  and  sympathetic  suggestion  he 
should  be  made  to  finish  the  movement. 

"Except  in  England,"  she  objected,  "which  is,  after  all, 
the  place  where  we're  most  concerned  to  make  politics 
interesting.  You  broke  down  rather  badly  there;  it  was 
far-fetched,  you  were  tired." 

He  looked  closely  at  her,  but  her  eyes  were  non-com- 
mittal. 

"It  was  all  far-fetched,  just  an  exercise  of  the  imagina- 
tion, yet  somehow  the  idea  of  a  man  with  an  inherited 
sense  of  injustice  warring  eternally  against  a  careless  so- 
ciety which  never  understands  his  grievance  and  would 
imprison  him  if  it  did  ..."  He  paused  and  added  con- 
versationally: "The  idea  rather  appealed  to  me.  I  see 
you  don't  agree,  and  I'm  rather  surprised,  because  under- 
neath a  veneer  of  civilisation  we've  most  of  us  a  secret 
craving  for  destruction.  You  see  it  in  boys  and  you  think 
they  outgrow  it,  but  they  don't.  We  all  of  us  feel  a  phy- 
sical joy  in  going  to  a  music  hall  and  watching  a  burlesque 


94  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

juggler  smashing  crockery.  It's  quite  inexplicable  .  .  . 
And  we've  all  of  us  our  childhood's  passion  for  a  Secret 
Society,  we're  all  of  us  Nihilists  in  posse  .  .  .  That  has 
been  the  backbone  of  the  female  suffrage  movement;  it's 
gratified  the  human  love  of  secrecy  and  scheming,  and  it's 
stirred  the  blood  with  the  sense  of  war  and  lust  of  demo- 
lition. Are  you  too  old  to  desire  to  be  an  outlaw  and  plot 
the  overthrow  of  society  .  .  .  ?" 

"Aren't  you?" 

"Not  too  old  to  feel  the  romance  of  it." 

"It  taxes  my  imagination  more  than  yours." 

"How  so?" 

Sheila  sat  silent  till  she  was  sure  of  his  fullest  atten- 
tion: then  she  looked  him  steadily  in  the  eyes  and  spoke 
with  deliberation. 

"Because  I've  none  of  the  Jacobite  spirit.  My  grand- 
father and  father  never  lost  their  lives  in  fighting  an  un- 
feeling government  for  the  sake  of  some  private  ideal; 
we've  still  got  all  the  property  we  ever  had,  and  a  good 
deal  more  besides;  we've  everything  to  lose  and  nothing 
to  gain  by  even  the  smallest  of  small  revolutions,  and  we've 
no  grievance  of  any  kind  against  society." 

She  paused  invitingly,  but  Denys  sat  silent  and  impas- 
sive, wondering  how  far  her  words  were  innocent  and 
how  much  she  had  guessed  his  secret.  In  another  moment 
the  last  doubt  was  removed. 

"So  it  isn't  easy  for  me  to  share  your  point  of  view," 
she  added  with  careful  emphasis. 

"Mine?"  he  exclaimed  with  an  overt  attempt  to  bring 
the  discussion  back  to  generalities. 

"Isn't  that  your  vision?  Red,  dripping  vengeance — they 
were  your  own  words." 

"I  was  suggesting  a  point  of  view." 

"Your  own?" 

"What  do  you  think?" 


SHEILA  TAKES  UP  POLITICS          95, 

"I'm  waiting  for  you  to  deny  it." 

"Do  I  give  the  impression  of  being  a  revolutionary?" 

"I  don't  know  you  well  enough." 

Denys  forced  a  laugh.  "Confide  your  suspicions  to  Sir 
William  if  you're  not  afraid  of  making  yourself  ridiculous. 
See  what  character  he  gives  me." 

"That's  the  strength  of  your  position,"  said  Sheila  judic- 
ially. "The  whole  idea's  so  grotesque  that  no  one  would 
treat  it  seriously:  if  ever  you  found  yourself  in  a  posi- 
tion of  power,  people  would  refuse  to  be  put  on  their 
guard." 

"Though  Sheila  Farling  rose  from  the  dead  to  warn 
them.  If  your  suspicions  are  so  bizarre,  is  it  quite  fair 
to  entertain  them  at  my  expense?" 

"Can  you  say  truthfully  that  you're  in  love  and  charity 
with  your  neighbour,  that  the  whole  Jacobite  business  was 
mere  talk,  that  your  father  had  no  business  to  fight  for 
the  Boers  against  his  own  countrymen  .  .  .  ?" 

"That  was  his  concern,  and  they  were  the  English,  not 
his  fellow  countrymen." 

"Same  thing." 

"Oh,  gods  of  my  fathers!"  Denys  threw  up  his  hands 
in  despair.  "It's  that  criminal  error  that  lies  at  the  root 
of  all  English  misgovernment  of  Ireland!  And  I  hear  it 
from  the  lips  of  a  girl  whose  name  is  Sheila,  who  w>is 
born  in  Ireland  and  talks  as  only  an  Irish  girl  can  talk." 

She  was  quite  unmoved  by  his  apostrophe  and  went  on 
composedly : 

"Can  you  say  truthfully — I  don't  want  to  hurt  your 
feelings — that  your  grandfather — well,  had  only  himself  to 
blame  for  what  happened?" 

"That  again  was  his  concern." 

"I  know.  And  there  was  great  provocation,  and  the 
man  he  killed  ought  to  have  been  killed;  and  your  grand- 
father faced  the  consequences  like  a  man  and  never  tried 


96  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

to  escape.     But  was  it  or  was  it  not  a  just  sentence?" 

Denys  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  law  forbids  duelling  and  he  killed  a  man  in  a 
duel.  Have  I  swept  away  the  Jacobite  charge?" 

"Quite,"  said  Sheila  ironically.  "And  a  good  deal  more 
besides.  You  can  take  the  Oxford  appointment  with  a 
light  heart." 

"I  don't  see  the  connection." 

"No  ?  You  gave  up  your  Fellowship  because  you  wanted 
to  take  up  politics  and  ...  oh  no,  it  wasn't  a  profes- 
sion and  it  wasn't  a  career,  it  was  a  faith,  a  duty,  a 
vision,  a  crusade —  What  a  memory  I've  got,  haven't  I? 
You  wouldn't  soil  your  fingers  with  party  politics  in  their 
present  state.  You  told  me  so,  didn't  you? — and  the  only 
way  you've  so  far  suggested  of  giving  dignity  or  romance 
to  English  politics  is  to  annihilate  the  English  for  their 
past  sins.  And  that  you  don't  want  to  do,  you've  no 
reason  for  desiring  to  do,  have  you?  You  told  me  that, 
too.  The  lectureship  has  no  rival  in  the  field."  She 
paused  to  enjoy  his  discomfiture,  and  then  added:  "That 
was  an  extraordinarily  good  summing-up;  in  my  way  I'm 
rather  clever.  And  here's  Riversley,  just  in  time  to  keep 
you  from  appealing  against  the  verdict." 

Denys  opened  the  door  and  helped  her  to  collect  her 
property.  The  train  had  reached  Riversley  half  an  hour  too 
late  for  his  peace  of  mind. 

"You'll  come  and  see  us  again  before  you  finally  leave 
town,  won't  you?"  she  said,  shaking  hands  with  him 
through  the  window.  "And  we'll  be  friends  and  I  won't 
tease  you." 

"I  don't  mind  it,"  he  said  with  an  uneasy  smile. 

"Oh  yes,  you  do!  You've  simply  hated  this  journey 
and  hated  me,  poor  little,  rather  attractive  me,  for  turn- 
ing you  inside  out,  and  you're  only  pretending  not  to 
be  angry  because  you  think  your  position's  quite  secure. 


SHEILA  TAKES  UP  POLITICS  97 

So  it  is.  You're  so  absurd  that  I  must  enjoy  you  by 
myself;  you're  far  too  good  to  share.  I  won't  tell  a  soul 
what  I've  discovered." 

"And  what  precisely  is  that?" 

"The  dream.  It's  been  puzzling  me  for  several  weeks. 
As  a  dream  it's  no  sillier  than  most,  but  of  course  if  you 
make  the  mistake  of  mixing  up  dreams  with  reality,  I  shall 
have  to  take  you  in  hand." 

Waving  him  good-bye,  she  ran  along  the  platform  in 
pursuit  of  the  tall  figure  of  her  grandfather.  Maurice 
was  pressed  into  her  service  as  a  beast  of  burden,  so  that 
both  her  hands  were  free  for  gesticulation  when  she  came 
to  explain  to  the  collector  that  her  ticket  was  lost  and 
she  had  no  intention  of  paying  the  price  of  another.  The 
combat  was  of  short  duration  and  ended  in  the  complete 
rout  of  the  collector.  As  the  train  steamed  out  of  the 
station  Denys  saw  her  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
directing  operations,  while  Maurice  endeavoured  under  a 
fire  of  criticism  to  unpack  her  dressing-case  and  discover 
a  motor-veil.  She  was  smiling  with  a  contentment  she 
had  every  right  to  feel.  In  the  first  place  she  had  satis- 
fied her  curiosity  on  the  subject  of  Denys,  in  the  second 
she  had  scotched  the  Oxford  lectureship.  Before  he  had 
time  to  send  in  his  acceptance,  her  grandfather  would 
have  to  make  a  definite  and  better  offer  of  employment 
in  London.  As  she  pretended  to  ridicule  one  article  of 
faith  after  another  and  strove  to  make  him  deny  their 
weight  in  his  thoughts,  she  had  seen  his  colour  rising,  and 
the  fire  gathering  in  his  eyes.  A  modicum  of  opposition 
or  disparagement  was  sufficient  to  bring  him  to  boiling 
point,  and  the  more  she  pressed  the  claims  of  Oxford, 
the  greater  his  distaste  for  Oxford  became.  He  would 
leap  at  any  proposal  that  would  keep  him  in  London  and 
bring  him  nearer  the  soul  of  politics. 

With  Oxford  relegated  to  the  background,  her  schemes 


98  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

for  bringing  him  into  touch  with  Daphne  and  disposing 
of  Maurice  took  on  their  former  favourable  colours.  In 
a  sense  she  was  playing  with  fire  in  compassing  the  union 
at  the  price  of  abetting  Denys  in  his  political  ambitions, 
but  the  danger  was  remote.  Daphne's  fervid  idealism  could 
be  trusted  forever  to  dispel  his  dream,  and  if  Daphne 
failed  she  could  rely  on  herself  to  find  some  way  of  count-1 
ering  him.  Without  underestimating  the  adroitness  of  her 
own  attack,  it  was  clear  that  a  man  who  allowed  himself 
to  be  as  completely  riddled  as  Denys  had  been  that  after- 
noon, was  an  adversary  not  deserving  of  serious  atten- 
tion. As  she  tied  the  motor-veil  in  place  and  climbed 
into  the  car,  she  reflected  that  even  a  railway  journey  may 
be  turned  to  profitable  account. 

Denys  travelled  on  to  Oxford  in  considerable  discom- 
fort of  mind,  feeling  like  a  guilty  schoolboy  who  is  un- 
certain whether  the  master  has  detected  his  guilt.  Until 
his  meeting  with  Sheila  no  one  had  troubled  to  connect 
him  with  a  man  of  the  same  Christian  and  surname  who 
had  died  fifty  years  before:  he  had  never  been  asked  so 
abruptly  how  he  regarded  his  grandfather's  memory  and 
whether  it  had  any  influence  on  his  own  scheme  of  life, 
consequently  he  had  never  been  obliged  to  palter  with  the 
truth  or  evade  a  direct  answer.  His  whole  existence,  as 
he  never  ceased  to  remind  himself,  was  one  of  duplicity, 
tut  the  labour  of  supporting  life  was  so  far  removed  from 
the  object  to  which  his  life  was  devoted  that  in  Oxford 
or  Fleet  Street  or  the  City  he  had  never  been  oppressed 
with  the  sensation  of  occupying  a  false  position.  If  Sheila 
had  really  plumbed  his  secret  and,  for  all  its  improbabil- 
ity, was  placing  credence  in  it,  the  feeling  of  imposture 
would  be  harder  to  avoid. 

For  the  present,  however,  he  was  passing  out  of  Sheila's 
world  and  moving  down  to  a  level  from  which  his  goal 
seemed  more  than  ever  inaccessible.  He  would  have  to 


SHEILA  TAKES  UP  POLITICS  99 

accept  the  lectureship  and  ought  to  be  grateful  for  the 
chance  that  put  another  position  at  his  disposal  the  mo- 
ment he  had  vacated  the  last.  But  for  what  he  conceived 
to  be  a  religious  duty,  the  prospect  would  have  been  en- 
chanting: Oxford  had  twined  her  memories  round  his 
heart-strings,  and  as  the  well-remembered  rickety  hansom 
bore  him  through  the  narrow  streets  to  Carfax,  his  mind 
went  back  to  the  day  when  he  entered  into  his  kingdom 
with  a  freshman's  eyes  for  the  glories  of  the  city. 

Could  he  without  ^  fear  of  self-reproach  start  afresh,  for- 
getting the  cloud  that  pressed  on  his  father's  and  grand- 
father's lives,  oblivious  of  his  own  struggles  and  poverty 
and  sacrifices,  the  world  might  yet  concede  to  him  the 
same  measure  of  contentment  as  to  others.  He  was  recon- 
ciled to  the  loss  of  wealth  and  the  shrinkage  of  position: 
neither  was  essential;  all  he  asked  of  life  was  leisure  to 
continue  his  work  and  explore  further  into  the  untrod- 
den regions  of  the  past.  If,  when  he  accepted  the  lecture- 
ship, he  would  have  leisure  .  .  .  but  tranquillity  of  mind 
would  be  wanting.  He  would  feel  as  he  had  felt  once 
before,  that  in  sitting  surrounded  by  his  books,  gazing 
into  the  flower-decked,  sunlit  quadrangle,  he  was  deafen- 
ing himself  to  the  voice  of  a  conscience  that  bade  him  go 
forth  and  avenge  his  grandfather's  memory.  And  when 
that  thought  rapped  at  the  door,  his  zest  for  work  flitted 
tantalisingly  out  of  the  window. 

Leaving  his  suit-case  at  the  porter's  lodge,  he  wandered 
back  along  the  Broad,  up  the  Corn  and  down  the  High. 
The  new  generation  exhibited  the  same  glossy  heads  and 
vivid  socks  as  in  his  own  day,  an  occasional  Bullingdon 
tie  was  as  conspicuously  hideous  as  ever.  Easter  had 
fallen  early,  and  Eights  week  was  in  progress:  the  same 
undergraduates  seemed  to  be  piloting  the  same  sisters  and 
mothers  with  the  same  dutiful  reluctance.  He  turned  down 
Oriel  Street,  with  a  sigh  for  the  fruits  of  Rhodes'  bequest 


ioo  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

to  his  college,  across  Merton  Street  and  into  the  Meadows. 
The  Broad  Walk  was  seething  with  spectators  returning 
from  the  barges.  An  occasional  don  recognised  and  ac- 
costed him. 

Strolling  past  the  barges  and  round  by  the  Humane 
Society's  punt,  he  halted  by  the  House  ferry,  roused  a 
friend  from  slumber,  and  accepted  an  invitation  to  share 
and  propel  a  stolen  Canadian  canoe.  The  friend  was  Jack 
Melbourne,  son  of  an  ex-colleague  on  the  Anglo-Hibernian 
board.  As  Jack  was  supposed  to  be  reading  for  Bar  exam- 
inations in  town  it  was  inevitable  that  he  should  be  found 
spending  a  protracted  week-end  in  Oxford,  and  as  races 
were  in  progress  on  the  Isis  it  was  equally  inevitable  that 
he  should  be  found  sleeping  three  hundred  yards  away 
up  the  Cher.  It  was  Jack  Melbourne's  first  rule  in  life 
to  ascertain  what  was  expected  of  him  and  then  do  some- 
thing different. 

"I  hear  you've  chucked  the  City  and  are  returning  to 
this  agreeable  spot,"  he  began  lazily. 

"I'm  thinking  of  it,"  said  Denys. 

"Well,  don't  think  too  quickly,  because  I'm  coming  to 
stay  with  you  in  town  next  week.  It's  impossible  to  get 
any  work  done  at  home." 

"I  don't  suppose  you'll  get  much  done  with  me." 

"Possibly  not,  but  I  shan't  have  my  father  rushing  in 
every  five  minutes  to  point  the  moral.  Where  are  you 
dining  to-night?" 

"All  Souls." 

"And  to-morrow?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  come  and  dine  with  the  Epicures.  I'm  staying 
with  Bobby  Harland,  and  as  he's  taking  me  he  may  as 
well  take  you  too.  No,  I  won't  be  thanked,  it  costs  me 
literally  nothing." 

Denys  paddled  the  boat  as  far  as  the  rollers  and  then 


SHEILA  TAKES  UP  POLITICS         101 

returned  overland  to  tea  in  New  College.  The  enchant- 
ment of  Oxford  settled  soothingly  on  his  spirit  and  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  accept  the  inevitable  with  a  good 
grace.  Dinner  that  night  at  All  Souls  completed  the  con- 
quest: official  Oxford  was  eager  and  unanimous  in  press- 
ing him  to  take  the  lectureship.  He  had  never  appre- 
ciated how  highly  his  work  was  regarded.  Sitting  at  wine 
and  smoking  in  Common  Room,  he  listened  delightedly 
to  the  tranquil,  unhurried  conversation  that  several  years 
of  stress  in  London  had  almost  driven  from  his  memory. 
The  thought  of  breathing  that  atmosphere  again  and  living 
once  more  within  sight  of  the  Bodleian  made  him  glad 
that.,  whatever  his  ultimate  intentions  might  be,  for  the 
present  the  lectureship  was  inevitable  and  without  alterna- 
tive. 

The  following  night  he  dined  with  the  Epicures.  It 
was  the  revival  of  a  pleasant  memory  which  fitted  itself 
together  piece  by  piece  in  his  mind:  the  dinner,  the  drive 
down  the  High  on  an  overcrowded  tram  to  the  club  rooms, 
the  dessert  and  wine,  and  speeches  and  toasts  and  fines, 
the  loving-cup  and  rich  display  of  presentation  plate.  The 
news  of  the  vacant  lectureship  had  travelled  apace,  and 
the  secretary  offered  a  flattering  welcome  to  the  pros- 
pective incumbent.  Denys  replied,  more  toasts  were  pro- 
posed, more  speeches  delivered,  more  fines  imposed  on 
disorderly  members,  till  at  last  the  time  came  to  stand 
up  and  drink  the  healths  of  absent  members.  Then  the 
party  dispersed  and  Denys  returned  home. 

The  beauty  of  the  city  and  the  charm  of  its  life  had 
not  belied  his  memory  and  expectations.  Before  going 
to  bed  he  wrote  a  formal  acceptance  of  the  lectureship, 
and  then  undressed  in  the  undersized  bedroom  and  settled 
himself  in  the  well-remembered  narrow  bed.  The  usual 
impassive  scout  called  him  in  the  morning,  filled  the  usual 
inadequate  hip-bath,  and  prepared  the  usual  Gargantuan 


102  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

breakfast.  On  his  plate  were  half  a  dozen  letters,  mostly 
forwarded  from  London :  one  had  come  direct.  He  opened 
it  first  and  read  with  curiosity: 

"My  DEAR  DENYS"  (it  ran), 

"Sheila  tells  me  you  are  week-ending  at  New  Col- 
lege, so  I  write  to  you  there.  I  don't  suppose  you  have 
had  time  to  fix  anything  up  since  resigning  your  director- 
ship of  the  Anglo-Hibernian,  and  I  therefore  want  you 
to  leave  yourself  a  free  hand  till  I  have  had  time  for 
a  chat  with  you.  Parkstone  (my  son-in-law,  you  know), 
the  chairman  of  the  Birth  Rate  Commission,  wants  a  man 
with  a  ready  pen  to  help  him.  The  evidence  is  finished 
this  week  and  they  will  proceed  to  consider  their  report. 
I  am  not  at  liberty  to  say — at  any  rate  on  paper — what 
lines  the  report  will  follow,  but  I  have  urged  P.  to  go  a 
little  beyond  the  customary  limits  of  such  reports  and  bring 
forward  proposals  that  will  strike  people's  imaginations. 
As  you  know,  I  have  always  considered  your  future  to 
be  literary  or  political — certainly  not  commercial,  though 
you  were  a  tower  of  strength  to  us  on  the  A.-H.  and 
I  was  sorry  to  lose  you.  P.  has  read  some  of  your  books 
and  wants  to  meet  you.  This  is  not  a  'blind-alley  em- 
ployment': I  am  so  convinced  that  politics  are  your  proper 
sphere  that  I  am  prepared  to  see  you  a  good  distance 
along  the  road.  I  cannot  write  more  now,  but  shall  be 
glad  if  you  will  let  me  know  as  soon  as  you  return  to 
town,  so  that  we  can  meet  and  talk  together.  I  return 
on  Tuesday. 

"Yours, 

"WM.  FARLING. 

"Sheila  sends — I  think  it  was  'love/  but  I'd  better  make 
it— 'kind  regards.'" 

Denys  turned  back  to  the  first  page  and  read  the  letter 
a"  second  time.     Oxford  was  blotted  out  of  his  mind  and 


SHEILA  TAKES  UP  POLITICS         103 

his  eyes  only  saw  the  words  "political  future,"  "I  am  pre- 
pared to  see  you  a  good  distance  along  the  road."  Then 
the  last  paragraph  attracted  his  attention  and  made  him 
smile.  Sheila  sent  him  her  love:  no  doubt  she  was  still 
rejoicing  over  what  she  regarded  as  her  victory  in  the 
train,  perhaps  wondering  how  he  was  facing  the  disap- 
pointment of  being  invalided  from  active  service  and  sent 
to  recruit  his  strength  in  Oxford.  And  while  she  rejoiced 
and  sent  flippant  messages,  her  grandfather,  all  unknown 
to  her,  was  offering  to  bring  him  in  a  moment  leagues 
nearer  his  goal  than  he  had  been  able  to  get  in  years  of 
unaided  striving. 

The  irony  of  such  a  postscript  being  added  to  such  a 
letter  pleased  him.  He  smiled  over  it  as  he  finished  his 
breakfast,  and  was  still  smiling  as  he  lit  a  pipe  and  sat 
down  to  destroy  his  overnight  acceptance,  substitute  a  re- 
fusal, and  tell  Sir  William  that  he  would  be  back  in  Lon- 
don at  midday  on  Monday  and  at  his  disposal  when 
required. 


CHAPTER  V 

HOW  LOVE'S   YOUNG  DREAM    SHOULD  RUN 

"Sir,"  said  Denis,  with  the  grandest  possible  air,  "I  believe  I  am 
to  have  some  say  in  the  matter  of  this  marriage.  .  ." 

"I  am  afraid  .  .  .  that  you  do  not  perfectly  understand  the  choice 
I  have  to  offer  you.  Follow  me,  I  beseech  you,  to  this  window  .... 
You  observe  there  is  an  iron  ring  in  the  upper  masonry,  and  reeved 
through  that  a  very  efficacious  rope.  Now,  mark  my  words :  if  you 
should  find  your  disinclination  to  my  niece's  person  insurmountable, 
I  shall  have  you  hanged  out  of  this  window  before  sunrise.  I  shall 
only  proceed  to  such  an  extremity  with  the  greatest  regret,  you  may 
believe  me.  For  it  is  not  at  all  your  death  that  I  desire-,  but  my 
niece's  establishment  in  life.  At  the  same  time,  it  must  come  to 
that  if  you  prove  obstinate  ...  if  you  sprang  from  Charlemagne, 
you  should  not  refuse  the  hand  of  a  Maletroit  with  impunity — not 
if  she  had  been  as  common  as  the  Paris  road — not  if  she  were 
as  hideous  as  the  gargoyle  over  my  door.  .  .  It  will  be  no  great 
satisfaction  to  me  to  have  your  interesting  relics  kicking  their  heels 
in  the  breeze  below  my  windows;  but  half  a  loaf  is  better  than 
no  bread.  .  "  .  ' 

R.  L.  STEVENSON:  "THE  SERE  DE  MALETROIT'S  DOOK." 

"!F  I'm  coming  to  pay  an  extended  visit  at  Buckingham 
Gate,  I  wish  you  could  see  your  way  to  looking  my  father 
up  in  my  absence." 

Denys  and  Melbourne  were  returning  to  town  from  Ox- 
ford, and  the  morning  was  sufficiently  advanced  for  Jack 
to  have  overcome  his  constitutional  early  moroseness  and 
to  have  grown  conversational. 

"If  you'd  like  to  adopt  him,  you  may,"  he  went  on.  "He 
has  many  good  points,  and  I'm  sure  he'd  like  you  as  a 
son.  He  always  grumbles  at  me  for  wasting  my  time 
and  not  settling  down  to  the  serious  business  of  life;  if 
he  knew  you'd  chucked  up  a  job  in  the  City  on  Friday, 

104 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  105 

taken  another  in  Oxford  on  Saturday,  turned  it  down  on 
Monday,  and  started  yet  another  on  Tuesday,  he'd  say: 
'This  young  man  means  to  get  on.'  Think  it  over;  he'd 
appreciate  you." 

Old  Mr.  Melbourne's  reiterated  assertions  that  it  was 
time  for  his  son  to  earn  his  own  living  awakened  no  re- 
sponsive chord  in  Jack's  breast.  For  twenty-two  years 
he  had  existed  without  toiling  or  spinning,  and  regarded 
himself  as  both  too  young  and  too  attractive  to  alter  his 
mode  of  life.  Most  men  with  his  endowment  of  good 
looks  started  life  with  not  more  than  an  average  amount 
of  original  sin  and  declined  gracefully  to  ultimate  damna- 
tion; Jack  had  been  damned  in  a  previous  existence  and 
made  no  effort  to  conceal  the  fact.  Largely  without  morals 
and  wholly  without  soul,  he  had  brought  an  urbane  and 
calculated  selfishness  to  the  level  of  a  rare  and  exotic  art. 
Men  continued  to  invite  him  to  their  dinners  because  it 
gratified  them  to  see  his  undisguised  enjoyment  of  their 
wine,  their  oysters,  and  their  cigars,  and  he  never  scrupled 
to  accept  an  invitation  and  then  not  appear;  women  and 
angels  wept  for  him  because  he  was  so  lovable,  so  incor- 
rigible, and  so  entirely  regardless  of  their  weeping.  If 
he  had  been  shipwrecked  on  a  desert  island  with  a  single 
companion,  and  the  companion  had  saved  two  loaves  out 
of  the  wreckage,  Jack  would  have  stolen  one  and  had 
the  other  given  him.  He  was  blessed  with  black  hair, 
black  eyes,  very  long  eyelashes,  and  very  white  teeth;  he 
did  no  work,  took  no  exercise,  never  missed  his  three 
Turkish  baths  a  week,  and  took  his  first  meal  of  the  day 
in  bed  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  amplitude 
of  his  leisure  and  the  perversity  of  his  tastes  might  be 
measured  by  the  fact  that  he  habitually  lit  his  pipe  from 
paper  spills  of  his  own  making. 

After  failing  to  secure  a  degree  at  Oxford,  he  had  stood 
for  a  Fellowship  at  All  Souls.  It  was  never  quite  clear 


io6  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

why  he  was  not  elected.  Since  coming  to  London  he 
had  discovered  that  a  man  who  is  still  young  and  unmar- 
ried can  find  a  sufficiency  of  mothers  with  daughters  to 
keep  him  fed  four  times  a  day,  supplied  with  cigars  in 
the  intervals  of  eating,  kept  au  c  our  ant  with  all  that  was 
best  in  music-hall  and  theatre,  housed  in  town,  mounted 
in  the  country,  and  invigorated  with  the  open  air  of  Scot- 
land throughout  the  autumn.  He  did  not  shoot,  as  it 
interfered  with  his  luncheon,  and  he  found  it  more  rest- 
ful to  linger  over  the  meal  and  allow  the  ladies  of  the 
party  to  wait  on  him.  If  there  were  any  remonstrance 
he  would  point  out  that  they  were  ten  and  he  was  one. 
It  was  a  tribute  to  his  personal  charm  that  he  was  most 
loved  by  those  whom  he  most  chastened,  and  his  mission 
in  life  was  to  galvanise  the  bones  of  the  heartless,  epi- 
grammatic 'nineties:  he  had  so  far  succeeded  in  reviving 
a  semblance  of  their  brutality  without  a  spark  of  their 
brilliance. 

"How  long  am  I  to  have  the  honour  of  entertaining  you  ?" 
asked  Denys.  "I  hope  you'll  stay  as  long  as  you  can,  of 
course;  but  I  don't  know  at  present  what  form  my  new 
job  will  take,  or  even  if  it  means  my  staying  on  in  town." 

"You  are  not  to  think  of  me  for  one  moment "  said  Jack 
earnestly.  "Busy  man,  Empire  resting  on  frail,  bowed 
shoulders,  and  so  forth.  I  shall  understand.  As  long  as 
I've  a  bed  and  a  latch-key  and  regular  meals  and  some- 
thing to  smoke  I  shall  be  happy.  And  you  must  take  in  the 
Morning  Post,  Denys ;  I'm  not  strong  enough  in  the  early 
afternoon  to  face  The  Times.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  little 
while  and  I  shall  be  with  you,  and  again  a  little  while  and 
I  shall  not  be  with  you.  I'm  spending  next  week  with  the 
Littletons." 

"Not  again !"  exclaimed  Denys  in  horror. 

"But  why  not?"  asked  Jack  with  surprise. 

The  Littletons  were  neighbours  of  Lord  Badstow's  at 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  107 

Riversley,  and  consisted  of  a  father  who  had  been  dismissed 
each  morning  to  the  decent  obscurity  of  Mincing  Lane  until 
he  had  acquired  a  considerable  fortune,  a  mother  who 
aspired  to  move  in  what  she  described — with  reverent  use  of 
capitals — as  County  Society,  and  a  singularly  unpreposses- 
sing and  entirely  unmarriageable  daughter.  The  gods  with 
fine  irony  had  suffered  Mrs.  Littleton  to  blunder  into  the 
possession  of  a  good  cook  and  a  husband  with  a  creditable 
taste  in  cigars:  that  explained  Jack's  frequent  acceptance 
of  her  hospitality.  The  curious  plainness  of  the  daughter 
Sibil  accounted  for  the  regularity  of  the  invitations,  and 
perhaps  too  for  a  quality  of  wine  which  neither  host  nor 
hostess  appreciated. 

"You're  heading  straight  for  the  dock,"  said  Denys  warn- 
ingly. 

"Oh,  I  think  not." 

"Obtaining  meals  under  false  pretences." 

"But  there  are  no  false  pretences ;  it's  the  ordinary  battle 
of  wits  and  the  old,  old  struggle  for  existence.  We  meet 
for  what  we  can  get  out  of  each  other:  I've  scored  a  few 
indifferent  meals  out  of  Mrs.  Littleton;  she's  got  a  blank 
card  at  present.  She's  trying  to  score  a  mesalliance  out  of 
me.  We  don't  put  on  any  disguises,  just  covering  enough 
to  hide  our  primitive  nakedness.  If  she  prosecutes  for 
obtaining  meals  under  false  pretences,  I  shall  prosecute  for 
attempted  abduction ;  and  if  either  of  us  downed  the  other, 
it  would  mean  the  break-up  of  society:  from  a  private 
vendetta  we  snould  be  driven  back  to  the  barbarities  of 
legal  proceedings." 

"Think  of  Sibil's  innocent,  girlish  dreams." 

"Sibil's  dreams  are  directly  traceable  to  overeating.  I've 
had  the  same  sort  of  thing  myself.  Anyway,  a  man  must 
live." 

On  their  arrival  at  Paddington  the  two  young  men  drove 
tQ  Buckingham  Gate.  Jack  then  changed  into  suitable 


io8  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

clothes  for  an  afternoon  at  the  club,  Denys  settled  down 
to  clear  off  odds  and  ends  of  correspondence  and  await  Sir 
William's  summons  to  Cleveland  Row.  By  Wednesday 
morning  the  preliminaries  were  complete. 

"When  you've  finished  breakfast,  Sheila,  you  might  see  if 
you  can  get  hold  of  Denys  on  the  telephone  and  say  I  want 
to  see  him  as  soon  as  possible."  Sir  William  finished  his 
tea  and  lit  a  cigarette.  "I  think  I've  fixed  up  everything 
with  Herbert.  It  was  a  good  idea;  Denys  is  just  the  man 
for  that  report." 

"That's  like  you,  to  take  all  the  credit.  Please  remember 
that  I  suggested  your  trying  to  get  Uncle  Herbert  to  find 
him  something  to  do.  Ages  ago  I  suggested  it,  just  after 
you'd  put  your  foot  into  it  on  board,  long  before  the  row 
on  the  Anglo-Hibernian." 

Sir  William  drew  in  the  smoke  of  the  cigarette  and 
looked  at  his  granddaughter  with  a  smile. 

"And  ever  since  that  day  I've  been  trying  to  make  out 
what'  devilry  you  were  up  to,  Sheila." 

"And  you  haven't  found  out,  and  you  aren't  likely  to.i 
unless  I  tell  you.  I  will  some  day,  when  you've  fixed  up 
this  secretary  business." 

Sheila  was  contentedly  lingering  over  breakfast  with  her 
grandfather.  The  meal  had  not  begun  until  eleven  o'clock 
because  it  was  a  rooted  belief  in  Sir  William's  mind  that  a 
hale  and  vigorous  old  age  could  only  be  secured  by  strong- 
willed  resistance  to  all  the  seductions  of  early  rising.  As 
Sheila  had  been  dancing  till  four  o'clock  she  was  not  dis- 
posed to  quarrel  with  her  grandfather's  conviction  on  this 
point,  and  the  two  of  them  presented  a  picture  of  unex- 
pected domesticity  as  they  sat  in  their  respective  armchairs 
sipping  tea,  munching  toast,  and  throwing  a  leisurely  eye 
over  their  morning's  letters.  The  lateness  and  privacy  of 
their  breakfast  had  not  led  either  to  depart  from  an  exalted 


LOVE'S  TOUNG  DREAM  109 

standard  in  the  matter  of  dress;  Sir  William  wore  a  grey 
frock  coat,  white  waistcoat,  and  patent  leather  boots,  and  if 
Sheila  appeared  in  a  tea-gown  of  grey  mousseline  de  soie 
it  was  not  because  she  found  it  less  trouble  to  put  on,  but 
because  it  acorded  an  all  too  rare  opportunity  for  display- 
ing her  unusually  small  wrists  and  white  arms. 

"He's  accepted  provisionally,"  said  Sir  William,  "and 
Herbert  is  now  only  waiting  to  meet  him  and  form  an 
opinion  of  his  abilities  and  I  just  want  to  tell  him  what's 
expected  of  him." 

"What's  he  living  on  all  this  while?" 

"Practical  woman !  I  expect  he  goes  to  Herbert  unpaid, 
but  I'm  undertaking  to  supply  him  with  the  sinews  of  war. 
I've  got  great  faith  in  his  powers  and  I'm  backing  him  to 
the  extent  of  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year  for  five  years. 
If  nothing  comes  of  the  report,  we  shall  know  the  worst  in 
six  months'  time,  and  for  four  and  a  half  years  he'll  find 
himself  provided  for.  If  the  report's  a  success  his  repu- 
tation will  be  made.  I  am  to  decide  whether  he's  to  stand 
for  Parliament,  and  if  he  does,  I  shall  pay  his  election  ex- 
penses. That's  our  contract  in  outline." 

"Well,  look  here."  Sheila  dropped  a  fresh  slice  of  lemon 
into  her  tea.  "You're  not  to  work  that  boy  too  hard.  He's 
delicate.  See  ?" 

Sir  William  smiled  to  himself  as  he  had  smiled  on  board 
in  the  early  stages  of  the  intimacy.  It  was  like  Sheila  to 
hold  a  brief  for  anyone  who  was  ill  or  unhappy,  but  her 
s«.  Hcitude  on  Denys'  behalf  was  something  new. 

"What  are  you  smiling  at,  Father  Time  ?"  she  asked. 

"Only  my  own  wicked  thoughts,  my  dear.  Now  ring 
him  up  and  see  if  he'll  dine  here  to-night,  and  if  not,  say 
I'll  come  round  to-morrow  afternoon." 

"We're  dining  out  to-night :  at  least,  we're  meeting  Uncle 
Herbert  and  Aunt  Margaret  and  Daphne  at  the  Carlton,  and 
going  on  to  the  opera." 


no  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"Why  are  we  forsaking  the  homely  fireside,  Sheila?" 

"My  dear,  until  we  have  a  cook  who's  less  eccentric  than 
Servan,  I  can't  take  the  responsibility  of  giving  dinner 
parties  at  home." 

"Well,  never  mind.  See  if  Denys  will  join  us  at  the 
Carlton.  I  suppose  there'll  be  room  for  him  in  Herbert's 
box ;  if  not  he  can  have  my  place.  My  palate's  not  suffici- 
ently vitiated  to  care  much  for  English  opera." 

Sir  William  gathered  up  his  letters  and  proceeded  to 
his  writing-table  in  the  window.  Though  it  was  June  the 
mornings  were  chilly,  and  Sheila  had  had  a  fire  lit  in  the 
large,  open  grate.  Before  this  she  drew  up  the  most  spac- 
ious arm  chair  in  the  room  and  piled  it  shoulder-high  with 
cushions:  then  taking  the  telephone  from  the  mantelpiece 
she  subsided  gracefully  into  the  cushions  until  a  pair  of 
small  feet  encased  in  grey  silk  stockings,  two  white  arms 
struggling  free  from  loose-hanging  sleeves,  and  a  little 
mischievous  face  surmounted  by  wave  upon  wave  of  soft, 
black  hair,  were  the  only  portions  of  her  body  which  re- 
mained visible.  The  telephone  is  to  most  people  a  more  or 
less  necessary  nuisance,  but  a  few  gifted  spirits  can  extract 
amusement  out  of  anything,  and  Sheila  Farling  never 
raised  the  smallest  of  her  fingers  unless  there  were  some 
diversion  to  be  won  from  the  action.  She  settled  down  to 
a  breezy  and  intimate  morning's  conversation,  leaving  her 
grandfather  to  deal  with  his  letters  as  best  he  might,  which 
meant,  as  usual,  their  speedy  abandonment  and  a  running 
commentary  of  gentle  protest  and  remonstrance. 

"Hallo,  hallo.  Is  that  Mr.  Play  fair?  Oh,  good  morning! 
I  say,  I  hope  I  haven't  dragged  you  away  from  breakfast 
or  bed.  Oh,  all  right,  you  needn't  be  so  stuck-up  about  it ; 
some  of  the  best  people  don't  breakfast  till  eleven.  I  was 
dancing  till  four.  Well  then,  I  suppose  that  means  you 
didn't  give  yourself  a  chance.  Oh,  never  mind  work,  I  do 
hate  that  damnable  word.  I  shall  say  'damnable*  if  I  like, 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  in 

it's  a  very  good,  expressive  word.  You  try.  Go  on.  Oh, 
that  was  delicious,  I  didn't  think  you  could  say  it.  You 
speak  just  like  a  naughty  schoolboy.  Look  here  serious 
business,  Denys.  Oh,  that  made  you  jump,  didn't  it?  Yes, 
it  did,  because  I  distinctly  heard  you  jump,  and  it  isn't 
polite  to  start  contradicting  a  lady  so  early  in  the  morning. 
Well,  it's  early  for  me,  anyway.  But  regarding  the  jump, 
you  did,  you  know;  but  Father  Time  and  everybody  calls 
you  Denys,  so  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't.  Oh  yes,  you 
were  bound  to  say  that ;  you're  a  little  obvious  in  the  early 
morning,  Denys.  Besides,  I  don't  think  you're  old  enough 
to  be  called  Mr.  Playfair,  you're  almost  an  infant  in  arms 
still.  Anyway,  you're  not  fit  to  look  after  yourself.  Keep 
quite  quiet,  please,  Father  Time.  No,  that  was  meant  for 
my  grandfather.  Look  here,  we're  talking  too  much  and 
losing  sight  of  the  main  issue.  Where  are  you  dining  to- 
night? Oh,  good  guess!  but  you  might  have  waited  to  be 
invited.  That's  all  nonsense,  I  want  you  to  dine  with  us. 
Well  you  must  lump  the  other  party ;  we — want — you — to— 
dine — with  — us — and — the — Grayling —  crowd — at — the — 
Carlton — and — come — on — to — the — opera.  Is  that  clear? 
Well,  you  must  give  the  tickets  to  someone  else  and  hire 
a  man  from  a  Labour  Exchange  to  take  your  place.  Very 
well  then,  all  I  can  say  is  that  you're  one  of  those  animals 
that  get  possessed  of  devils  and  run  down  steep  places  into 
the  sea.  You  know  what  I  mean.  No,  swine's  a  horrid 
word,  I  only  meant  pigs,  little  pigs,  little  black  pigs.  What's 
the  attraction,  anyway?  Oh  yes,  I  knew  that,  but  what's 
she  like  ?  Of  course  she's  pretty,  she  always  is ;  besides,  I 
did  give  you  credit  for  fairly  good  taste  in  looks,  Denys, 
or  I  wouldn't  have  honoured  you  with  your  present  degree 
of  intimacy.  Yes,  but  if  you  get  the  other  end  of  the  room 
I  shan't  see  her.  How  old  is  she  ?  O-o-oh !  My  dear  boy, 
what  possible  amusement  can  you  get  out  of  taking  a  child 
of  eleven  to  the  theatre?  You  aren't  really  fond  of  small 


ii2  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

children,  are  you?  Oh,  but  that's  rather  sweet  of  you;  I 
didn't  know  you  were  so  human.  No,  don't  cut  me  off  yet, 
please,  I  haven't  half  finished.  Well,  Denys — ah!  you're 
getting  used  to  it  now,  you  hardly  jumped  at  all  that  time : 
the  point  is  that  Father  Time  wants  to  talk  to  you  and  he's 
thinking  of  coming  round  to  tea  to-morrow.  Shall  I  come 
too?  Oh,  that's  a  lot  better;  you  warm  up  and  get  less 
obvious  as  the  day  goes  on.  Yes,  it  is  a  bit  of  a  strain,  isn't 
it?  Well,  what  will  you  give  us  for  tea?  No,  I  simply 
loathe  India.  Well,  then,  you'll  have  to  make  me  some 
coffee,  that's  all.  What's  your  flat  like?  Shall  I  like  it? 
Oh,  I  daresay,  but  I  want  to  know  if  you  think  I  shall  like 
it,  I  want  to  see  if  you  take  a  proper  pride  in  your  surround- 
ings. Hallo,  somebody  wants  to  see  me,  so  you  mustn't 
waste  my  morning  any  longer." 

She  turned  to  her  grandfather  and  explained  quite  un- 
necessarily. 

"He  can't  dine  with  us  to-night  because  he's  taking  a  child 
to  the  theatre,  and  she's  only  eleven  and  very  pretty  and 
her  name's  Margery ;  but  he's  expecting  you  to  tea  to-mor- 
row and  I'm  coming  too  to  see  what  his  flat's  like,  and  he's 
going  to  make  coffee  for  me  with  his  own  fair  hands,  and  he 
doesn't  like  to  hear  me  use  strong  language  and  altogether 
he's  rather  a  dear.  Yes,  James?'*  This  to  a  footman. 

"Mr.  Weybrook  has  called  to  know  if  anyone  is  at  home." 

Sir  William  silently  gathered  up  his  papers  and  prepared 
for  flight. 

"Here,  Father  Time,"  expostulated  his  granddaughter, 
"play  fair.  I'll  toss  you  who  has  to  see  Maurice." 

"My  dear,  I'm  not  equal  to  Maurice  at  this  hour  of  the 
morning." 

"Well,  what  about  me?" 

"I  think  you'll  be  equal  to  almost  anything,  judging  by 
your  powers  over  the  telephone — equal  even  to  seeing  that 
Maurice  doesn't  stay  to  lunch."  He  faded  away  through 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  113 

one  door  as  Weybrook  entered  through  the  other.  Sheila 
weighed  the  possibility  of  being  able  to  make  sport  out  of 
her  visitor  and  decided  that  his  air  of  dejection  was  prom- 
ising. 

"Well,  Maurice,"  she  began,  "will  you  put  the  telephone 
back  on  the  mantelpiece?  Then  we  can  consider  why  we 
are  thus  favoured.  Smoking  is  permitted." 

He  obeyed  her  orders  and  sat  down  opposite  her  at  one 
end  of  the  club  fender,  balancing  his  hat  on  his  knees  and 
tapping  the  inside  of  his  left  boot  with  a  short,  gold-tipped 
cane. 

"You  look  comfortable,  Sheila,"  he  remarked. 

"Yes,  Maurice." 

A  pause. 

"You're  a  rum  kid." 

"Yes,  Maurice." 

"Can't  make  you  out.  You  just  sit  and  bubble  over. 
Never  seem  off  colour." 

"No,  Maurice." 

"Wish  I  knew  how  you  managed  it.  Look  here,  Sheila, 
what's  the  matter  with  Daphne?" 

"What  wrong  has  she  done  in  her  lord's  eyes,  Maurice?" 

"Oh,  drop  rottin'.    I  can't  make  her  put." 

"That's  the  second  person  you  haven't  been  able  to  make 
out  in  the  last  two  minutes.  I'm  afraid  you're  lacking  in 
perception,  Maurice." 

"Dessay,  but  I'm  only  in  the  same  boat  as  everyone  else 
over  Daphne.  I  can't  think  what's  up  with  her.  We  used 
to  get  on  swimmin'ly  and  now  I  don't  seem  able  to  do  any- 
thing right.  God!  I've  never  spent  such  a  week-end  in 
my  born  days.  I  sometimes  think  she's  sick  of  me." 

"Impossible,  Maurice !" 

"Well,  it  looks  like  it." 

"Have  you  asked  her?" 

"Yes,  that's  the  devil  of  it.    I  put  it  to  her,  why  was  she 


n4  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

mopin'?  Was  she  sick  of  me?  Did  she  want  to  bust  up 
the  engagement?  Was  it  my  fault?  Had  I  gone  downhill 
since  we  first  fixed  it  up  ?  What  was  it  all  about  ?" 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"Said  she  wasn't  mopin'  and  that  I  hadn't  gone  to  rot, 
but  that  she  felt  she  was  leadin'  a  pretty  useless  sort  of 
life,  and  that  she  felt  she'd  been  put  into  the  world  to  do 
some  good  of  some  kind  and  was  blest  if  she  could  see 
how  she  was  justifyin'  her  existence.  That  was  a  week 
ago,  and  she's  worse  now." 

"How?" 

"Well,  this  week-end  she  says  she's  livin'  with  her  head  in 
a  drain-pipe — not  those  words,  of  course — and  knows  nothin' 
of  what  goes  on  outside  the  four  walls  of  Berkeley  Square. 
She's  started  readin'  some  joker's  'Life  and  Labour  in  Lon- 
don' and  wants  to  go  and  do  social  work.  I  put  it  to  you, 
Sheila:  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"Why  don't  you  read  the  same  joker's  'Life  and  Labour 
in  London'  and  go  and  do  social  work  with  her?" 

"Think  she'd  like  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  would  show  you  were  trying  to  get  up 
a  sympathy  for  what  interests  her.  You  haven't  done  much 
in  that  direction  yet  awhile,  Maurice !" 

"Suppose  not.    Think  I'd  like  it?" 

"I'm  sure  you  won't,  but  I  think  it  will  be  very  good  for 
you." 

"I  dunno.  Look  here,  what  I  want  to  know  is,  how's  it 
goin*  to  end?  If  I  do  the  heavy  philanthropic  with  Daphne 
for  six  months  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  I'm  laid  out  stiff, 
and  she's  still  as  keen  as  ever,  things  are  worse  than  they 
are  now.  It'll  look  as  if  double  harness  was  goin'  to  be  a 
murky  sort  of  buisness  for  us  both." 

"Well,  don't  meet  your  troubles  half-way,  Maurice  Give 
it  a  six  months'  trial  and  then  come  back  for  a  fresh  dose 
of  advice." 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  115 

"I'm  not  proud,  Til  give  it  a  trail ;  but  look  here,  Sheila, 
I  wish  you'd  talk  to  Daphne  yourself  and  see  if  you  can  get 
any  change  out  of  her." 

"All  right.  Give  me  the  telephone  and  I'll  get  her  to 
come  and  see  me.  Now,  Maurice,  I  shall  have  to  turn  you 
out,  I've  got  a  lot  to  do." 

"You  look  it."  He  got  up  and  rammed  his  hat  on  to  the 
back  of  his  head.  "I  say  it  again,  Sheila,  you're  a  rum  kid." 

"Thank  you,  Maurice." 

"No  rot  about  your  bein'  put  into  the  world  to  do  good  to 
your  fellow-man." 

"You  ungrateful  pig !  When  I've  wasted  the  best  part  of 
half  an  hour  listening  to  your  troubles  and  trying  to  find 
you  a  way  out  of  your  difficulties." 

"No  offence,  Sheila.  I  mean  no  rot  of  Daphne's 
kind." 

"No,  my  task  is  much  harder.  I  hate  seeing  people  un- 
happy, so  I  devote  myself  to  pulling  unfortunate  youngsters 
out  of  the  mire." 

"Well,  it's  a  good  Christian  work.    So  long,  Sheila." 

He  ambled  out  of  the  room  whistling  to  himself,  and 
Sheila  once  more  addressed  herself  to  the  telephone,  this 
time  to  invite  Lady  Daphne  to  lunch  with  her.  Sir  William 
was  bound  for  his  son-in-law's  house  to  offer  suggestions  for 
the  lines  on  which  the  proposed  report  was  to  be  drawn  up, 
Sheila  would  be  left  to  her  own  resources  for  many  hours, 
and  Daphne  would  only  be  in  the  way  if  she  remained  at 
home,  so  that  everything  pointed  to  the  advisability  of  ac- 
cepting her  cousin's  invitation.  At  two  o-clock,  accordingly, 
Lady  Daphne  arrived,  and  as  soon  as  luncheon  was  over 
both  girls  retired  to  the  drawing-room  and  Sheila  opened  the 
campaign  without  further  delay. 

"Father  Time's  very  full  of  mischief  just  now,"  sae  re- 
marked, "and  Uncle  Herbert  is  being  caught  in  his  toils." 

"What's  happening?"  asked  Lady  Daphne. 


n6  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"They're  hatching  a  scheme  for  bringing  out  a  book  on 
the  results  of  the  Birth  Rate  Commission  and,  according  to 
Father  Time,  it's  going  to  start  a  revolution  and  break  up 
all  the  old  political  parties  and  make  Uncle  Herbert  the  shin- 
ing light  of  a  New  Model  Republic  or  something  of  the 
kind.  Haven't  you  heard?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"Oh,  well,  it's  only  just  been  fixed  up.  Father  Time  has 
suborned  a  clever  young  friend  of  his  to  do  the  writing  of 
the  book;  he  only  heard  this  morning  that  the  said  clever 
young  friend  was  willing  to  lend  his  services  to  the  cause. 
On  closer  investigation  the  chosen  vessel  turns  out  to  be 
my  friend  Denys  Play  fair,  your  honorary-guide-to-London- 
in-the-small-hours." 

"Oh,  what  fun !  He's  one  of  the  most  entertaining  people 
to  talk  to  that  I've  ever  met."  She  relapsed  into  a  thought- 
ful silence  while  Sheila  marked  with  approval  the  sudden 
brightness  that  had  come  into  her  eyes  at  the  mention  of 
Denys. 

"If  you're  looking  out  for  an  opportunity  for  social  work, 
here  you've  got  it.  You'd  better  help  Uncle  Herbert  and 
Denys  with  the  report." 

"Who  told  you  about  me  looking  out  for  social  work, 
Sheila?"  asked  Lady  Daphne  in  some  surprise. 

"Maurice.  He's  quite  upset  about  you,  my  dear.  Called 
here  this  morning  to  know  why  he  was  out  of  favour  and 
what  he'd  better  do  to  get  back  into  your  good  graces. 
Also  wanted  to  know  why  you'd  been  bitten  with  a  desire 
for  good  works  and  how  long  would  I  give  you  to  outgrow 
it," 

"Oh,  Maurice!"  The  brightness  faded  out  of  her  eyes 
and  Sheila  did  not  fail  to  notice  this  change  also.  "What 
did  you  tell  him,  Sheila?" 

"I  told  him  to  go  and  do  likewise."  She  paused  to  enjoy 
the  effect.  "Maurice  is  going  to  show  his  mettle:  he's 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  117 

going  to  prove  how  fond  he  is  of  you,  and  if  you  ask  me 
how  long  I  think  he'll  stand  it,  I  should  say  about  a  fort- 
night." 

"What  made  you  do  that,  Sheila?"  asked  Daphne  after 
an  interval  of  reflection. 

"I  wanted  to  see  if  Maurice  was  as  unadaptable  as  he 
sometimes  seems  to  be.  After  all,  my  dear,  if  you're  going 
to  marry  him,  it's  as  well  to  find  out  if  you've  got  any 
tastes  in  common.  I  think  Maurice  feels  that.  He  knows 
his  tastes:  eating  and  drinking  and  smoking,  polo,  hunting 
and  steeplechasing,  the  Gaiety  and  the  Empire,  Romano's 
and  the  Savoy  Grill  Room.  He  doesn't  know  your  tastes 
and  doesn't  know  whether  you  know.  So  I've  told  him  to 
find  out.  For  the  next  few  weeks  Maurice  is  going  to 
slum  with  you.  If  you  both  like  it,  well  and  good:  if  you 
both  get  tired  of  it,  well  and  good  also.  If  he  gets  tired 
of  it  and  you  don't  ..."  She  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 
"I  told  him  to  come  back  to  me  for  a  fresh  dose  of  good 
advice." 

Sheila  made  her  statement  sufficiently  obscure  to  give 
her  cousin  food  for  reflection.  The  two  sat  in  silence  for 
a  while  till  it  came  into  Daphne's  mind  that  she  had  prom- 
ised to  call  for  her  father  and  drive  him  to  his  club.  Sheila 
accompanied  her  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  hoping  for  some 
expression  of  opinion  on  the  subject  of  her  disposal  of 
Maurice's  activities  for  the  remaining  weeks  of  the  season. 
None  was  forthcoming :  Daphne  merely  put  her  arms  round 
her  cousin's  neck  and  kissed  her,  with  the  words,  "Dear 
old  Sheila,"  and  then  ran  down  the  stairs.  Sheila  was  re- 
duced to  refusing  tea,  sitting  at  the  piano  in  her  drawing-* 
room  and  playing  somewhat  dreamy  waltzes  until  it  was 
time  to  dress  for  dinner.  Then,  when  her  hair  had  been 
brushed  and  the  major  portion  of  her  toilette  was  com- 
plete, she  slipped  on  a  green  silk  kimono  and  sat  down  in 
an  armchair  by  her  bedroom  window  to  await  her  grand- 


n8  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

father's  return  and  his  invariable  visit  to  her  bedroom  on 
his  way  to  dress.  » 

She  had  only  five  minutes  of  enforced  idleness  before  he 
knocked  at  the  door,  entered  into  possession  of  the  sofa, 
and  produced  a  cigarette  case. 

"Not  to-night,  Father  Time,"  she  said  warningly.  "I've 
just  had  my  hair  washed,  and  cigarette  smoke  doesn't  go 
well  with  Eau  de  Portugal." 

"You've  got  the  makings  of  a  tyrant  in  you,  Sheila," 
grumbled  the  old  man. 

"A  wonderful  aptitude  for  getting  my  own  way,  that's 
all.  I  tell  people  it  shows  the  strength  of  my  character. 
Well,  have  you  bought  your  slave?" 

"Signed,  sealed  and  delivered.  I  fixed  up  everything 
with  Herbert  and  they  start  as  soon  as  the  evidence  of  the 
Commission  has  been  circulated." 

"Well,  aren't  you  going  to  thank  me  for  finding  you  the 
slave?" 

"I'm  waiting  to  be  told  the  reason  of  this  sudden  incur- 
sion into  politics." 

"Well,  I  didn't  see  why  I  shouldn't  have  my  share  of  fun 
out  of  it.  Father  Time,  what  do  you  think  of  Denys  as  a 
prospective  grandson-in-law  ?" 

"You  might  go  a  long  way  farther  and  fare  a  good  deal 
worse.  By  the  way,  has  he  said  anything  on  the  subject?" 

"Father  Time!" 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  asked  my  advice." 

"But  not  about  .  .  My  dear,  venerable  friend,  do  you 
think  I  should  be  consulting  you  on  such  a  subject?" 

"Again,  you  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse." 

"That's  pure  vanity;  you  get  much  vainer  as  you  grow 
older,  Father  Time."  . 

"It's  a  gentlemanly  failing,  like  avarice." 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,  but  for  your  future  guid- 
ance I  will  inform  you  that  I'm  far  too  busy  straightening 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  n$> 

out  other  people's  matrimonial  tangles  to  have  time  to 
make  any  for  myself,  and  further,  when  I  do  take  the 
plunge  I  shan't  dream  of  allowing  anybody  to  give  me 
advice  on  the  subject." 

"That  I  rather  imagined,  my  dear." 

"Well,  anyway,  my  point  is:  how  would  you  like  to  see 
Denys  as  a  grandson-in-law  and  the  husband  of  Daphne? 
I  think  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  it." 

"Her  mother  will  find  a  good  deal  to  say  against  it.  You 
really  are  rather  an  imp,  young  woman.  I  suppose  all 
your  plans  have  been  laid  with  the  idea  of  getting  those 
two  under  the  same  roof  for  an  indefinite  period.  As  soon 
as  Daphne's  mother  sees  which  way  the  wind  is  blowing 
she'll  send  him  packing.  I  talked  to  her  to-day  on  the 
subject  of  Maurice:  from  her  conversation  I  was  forced 
to  add  this  to  the  list  of  marriages  that  are  laid  at  the 
door  of  a  mute,  uncomplaining  heaven." 

"Well,  I'm  only  concerned  with  marriages  as  they  are 
made  in  this  world." 

"Practical  woman!  Incidentally,  how  are  you  disposing 
of  Maurice?" 

Sheila  lay  back  in  her  chair  and  gave  a  little  bubble  of 
laughter. 

"My  dear,  I've  had  such  a  day!  First  of  all,  in  comes 
Maurice  with  a  face  a  mile  long  and  wants  me  to  find  out 
what's  the  matter  with  Daphne  and  why  he's  so  much  out 
of  favour.  He  says  she  has  become  suddenly  convinced  of 
a  serious  purpose  in  life,  and  as  a  result  she  is  all  agog  to 
cut  short  her  present  sinful,  wasted  existence  and  start  in  to 
feed  the  hungry,  clothe  the  naked,  comfort  the  sorrowful, 
and  free  those  that  are  prisoners  and  captives.  Not  un- 
naturally Maurice  is  a  little  perplexed  and  doesn't  know 
how  to  acquire  merit  under  the  new  dispensation." 

"Could  you  help  him?" 

"Yes,  I  told  him  to  take  up  his  cross  and  follow  Daphne. 


;i20  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

It  will  do  him  good  and  show  Daphne  he's  trying  to  meet 
'her  on  the  subject  of  her  newborn  enthusiasm.  Father 
Time,  if  you  leave  fat  finger-marks  on  my  best  silver-backed 
brushes,  you  won't  be  invited  again." 

Sir  William  replaced  the  brush  with  which  he  had  been 
fidgeting.  "Well?" 

"Then  came  Daphne — and  I  had  her  version.  It's  quite 
true,  she's  got  philanthropy  in  an  acute  form,  so  I  en- 
couraged her  and  tried  to  keep  the  fever  unabated." 

"Well?" 

"That's  all." 

"For  a  woman,  perhaps.  Not  for  me.  I  want  to  know 
how  Denys  comes  in,  for  instance." 

"My  dear,  you  must  learn  to  draw  conclusions.  Daphne 
breaks  out  as  a  social  worker  of  a  rabid  order,  and  at  my 
advice  Maurice  follows  suit  to  try  and  seem  sympathetic 
and  anxious  to  please  her.  Six  months  of  the  treatment 
leaves  Daphne  keener  than  ever  and  Maurice  with  his 
patience  in  tatters.  He  recognises  that  himself.  Result: 
either  they  both  realise  that  they're  not  cut  out  for  each 
other  or  if  Daphne  persists  in  her  present  absurd  frame  of 
mind  that  she  can't  throw  him  over  after  once  accepting 
him,  I  am  backing  Maurice  to  feel  he  can't  marry  the 
Daphne  of  the  regeneration,  and  to  make  tracks  for  the 
other  side  of  the  world.  If  necessary  I  am  going  to  help 
him  by  suggesting  a  few  of  the  delights  of  bachelorhood, 
not  forgetting  to  mention  that  a  bachelor  has  no  wife's  so- 
cial and  philanthropic  schemes  to  support." 

"And  all  this  while  Daphne  is  going  to  have  Denys  as  a 
counter-attraction  ?" 

"That's  the  idea." 

"And  what  if  Denys  doesn't  take  kindly  to  Daphne?" 
asked  Sir  William,  who  recognised  the  possibility  of  hav- 
ing him  as  a  grandson-in-law,  but  as  the  husband  of  an- 
other grand-daughter. 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM  121, 

Sheila  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"We  must  take  our  chance  of  that,  but  I  don't  think  it 
likely  and  anyway,  the  important  thing  is  to  knock  into 
Daphne's  head  the  recognition  that  Maurice  is  not  worth 
having  at  any  price  whatever.  I've  had  a  pretty  busy  day, 
Father  Time." 

"So  it  seems.  There's  not  much  of  Daphne's  'serious 
mission  in  life'  about  you,  Sheila." 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  walked  over  to  a  mirror  in 
order  to  fix  a  white  rose  in  the  side  of  her  hair. 

"What  brutes  you  men  are,"  was  her  tranquil  comment* 
"That's  just  the  remark  Maurice  made." 

"Isn't  there  something  in  it?" 

"No."  She  turned  to  him  quite  seriously.  "My  mission 
in  life  is  to  make  people  happy  and  show  them  what  an 
astonishingly  good  place  this  world  is.  Daphne  has  the 
first  call  on  my  powers  because  she's  my  cousin  and  I'm 
very  fond  of  her,  and  I've  had  her  in  hand  for  some  time 
now.  And  Denys  comes  next  because — oh,  I  don't  know, 
because  he's  got  a  genius  for  mak  -3  himself  perfectly  mis- 
erable, and  a  nice  boy  with  a  beautiful  profile  and  magnifi- 
cent eyes  has  no  business  to  be  perfectly  miserable.  As  it 
happens  it  suits  my  plans  to  run  my  two  cures  concurrently." 

"Killing  two  birds  with  one  stone?" 

"You're  extraordinarily  inept  in  some  of  your  metaphors, 
Father  Time." 


CHAPTER  VI 

CLAY   IN    THE    POTTER'S    HANDS 

"For  I  remember  stopping  by  the  way 
To  watch  a  Potter  thumping  his  wet  clay: 

And  with  its  all-obliterated  Tongue 
It  murmur'd — 'Gently  Brother,  gently  pray  1' 

Ah  love !  could  you  and  I  with  him  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  entire, 

Would  we  not  shatter  it  to  bits — and  then 
Remould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  Desire  1" 

FITZGERALD:  "OMAB  KHAYYAM." 

THE  following  afternoon  Sir  William  and  Sheila  drove 
across  St.  James's  Park  to  take  tea  with  Denys  in  his  flat 
in  Buckingham  Gate.  They  were  informed  on  their  ar- 
rival that  he  had  just  telephoned  to  say  he  might  be  a 
few  minutes  late  and  would  his  guests  excuse  his  impolite- 
ness and  begin  tea  without  him?  The  man  who  gave  the 
message  added  that  another  gentleman  of  the  name  of 
Melbourne  was  waiting  in  the  library.  Sheila,  as  usual, 
assumed  control  of  the  situation  and  issued  a  breathless 
torrent  of  instructions. 

"No,  we  won't  start  tea  till  Mr.  Playfair  comes,  because 
he's  promised  to  make  coffee  for  me  and  I  won't  have  it 
from  anybody's  hands  but  his;  and  I  don't  propose  to  sit 
doing  nothing  while  you  live  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  Father 
Time.  Which  is  the  library,  please?" 

"The  first  door  on  the  right,  miss." 

"Very  well,  then,  don't  you  bother  about  us ;  well  go 
and  make  friends  with  Mr.  Melbourne  and  brighten  him 
up  till  Mr.  Playfair  comes.  That  is  not  a  bad  hall,  Father 

122 


CLAY  IN  THE  POTTER'S  HANDS     123 

Time :  he  shows  quite  fair  taste  in  his  oak  and  his  brasses." 
The  inspection  concluded,  she  threw  open  the  library  door 
and  stood  still  for  a  full  minute  to  take  in  the  effect  of 
the  room  as  a  whole.  Denys  had  chosen  the  flat  for  love 
of  the  library,  and  it  was  here  that  most  of  his  time  was 
spent.  The  room  was  more  than  thirty  feet  long,  with 
three  windows  on  the  left  side  overlooking  the  park,  and  a 
large  open  fireplace  surrounded  by  a  club  fender  in  the 
middle  of  the  opposite  wall.  Every  other  inch  of  wall  space 
was  covered  with  carved  oak  book-cases  standing  five  feet 
high  and  surmounted  by  a  collection  of  valuable  bronzes 
separated  from  each  other  at  intervals  of  two  yards  by  cut- 
glass  bowls  and  vases  of  roses.  The  bottom  shelves  of 
the  bookcases  were  fitted  with  locked  glass  doors  through 
which  could  be  seen  choice  examples  of  the  binder's  most 
consummate  art.  There  was  a  double  writing-table  at  each 
end  of  the  room  and  in  the  middle  a  small,  square,  four- 
sided  bookcase  with  a  Rodin  bust  on  top.  Two  capacious 
armchairs  and  a  Chesterfield  sofa  upholstered  in  olive  green 
morocco  faced  the  fireplace,  and  in  one  of  these,  reading  an 
evening  paper  and  nursing  a  large  blue  Persian,  sat  Mr. 
Jack  Melbourne.  Sheila  gave  herself  time  to  notice  that  he 
was  good-looking,  young,  and  healthy;  from  the  negative 
evidence  of  empty  plates  she  judged  that  he  had  been 
hungry  or  at  least  passably  greedy,  then  she  advanced  with 
outstretched  hand.  Melbourne  was  so  much  engrossed  in 
his  paper  that  she  was  opposite  his  chair  before  he  looked 
up  to  see  a  slight,  pretty  girl  in  grey,  close-fitting  dress 
and  large  black  hat  holding  out  a  very  small,  white-gloved 
hand  and  speaking  with  a  look  of  amusement  in  her  big 
black  eyes. 

"Don't  get  up,  Mr.  Melbourne,  please.  Oh,  I  know  it's 
considered  more  polite,  but  you  should  study  the  comfort  of 
the  cat  instead  of  making  a  fetish  of  your  manners.  I'm 
Sheila  Farling,  this  is  my  grandfather,  Sir  William  Farl- 


i24  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

ing ;  you  probably  know  him,  most  people  seem  to.  We've 
come  to  have  tea  with  Denys  and  as  he  isn't  here  I  propose 
to  go  for  a  tour  of  inspection.  Will  you  come?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted."  Jack  Melbourne  removed  the 
cat  to  a  neighbouring  chair,  shook  hands  with  both  the 
newcomers,  and  awaited  instructions. 

"Are  you  coming,  Father  Time?"  she  asked,  rtor  shall  I 
give  you  something  to  read  to  keep  you  out  of  mischief?" 

"I've  been  here  before,  Sheila.  I  shall  sit  and  rest,  if 
you'll  find  me  something  interesting.  See  if  he's  got  any  of 
the  proof-sheets  of  his  new  book  on  that  table."  He  dropped 
into  an  armchair  and  lit  a  cigarette  while  his  granddaughter 
brought  him  a  heavy  bundle  of  proofs  from  the  writing- 
table  by  the  door.  "This  will  keep  me  busy  for  the  pres- 
ent," he  remarked.  "Now,  Jack,  I  hold  you  responsible 
for  Sheila's  good  behaviour,  and  though  you  may  think  it 
an  honour  now,  when  you've  known  her  as  long  as  I  have, 
you'll  appreciate  why  I'm  white-haired." 

"Seventy-three  years  of  thoroughly  unprincipled  living! 
It's  enough  to  make  anyone's  hair  white.  Perhaps  I 
came  on  the  scene  too  late  to  save  the  body,  but  I  still  have 
hopes  of  the  soul.  Come  along,  Mr.  Melbourne,  or  we 
shan't  have  time  to  get  round  before  Denys  comes 
back." 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Sheila  enjoyed  the  luxury  of 
unhindered  exploration  in  strange  territory  and  the  privilege 
of  uninterrupted  commentary.  She  was  growing  interested 
in  Denys.  He  had  attracted  her  on  board,  and  the  attrac- 
tion had  by  no  means  come  to  an  end  on  the  discovery  of 
what  she  conceived  to  be  the  cloud  that  overhung  his  life 
and  lent  an  air  of  mystery  and  distance  to  his  personality. 
She  had  never  been  able  to  induce  him  to  talk  about  him- 
self, so  that  it  had  come  as  no  small  surprise  to  her  to  be 
told  by  a  Regius  Professor  that  she  had  been  entertaining 
a  genius  unaware.  He  liked  her,  apparently,  or  he  would 


CLAY  IN  THE  POTTER'S  HANDS     125 

not  be  at  such  pains  to  seek  her  out  and  talk  to  her :  on  the 
other  hand,  he  talked  as  he  would  talk  to  a  child,  teasing 
and  laughing  at  her,  never  treating  her  seriously  or  admit- 
ting her  to  his  confidence.  She  was  uncertain  whether  to  be 
annoyed  with  him  or  to  relax  her  present  inquisitorial  and 
domineering  attitude  with  a  view  to  winning  his  sympathy. 
Finally  she  decided  that  it  would  be  time  enough  to  de- 
termine how  to  behave  towards  him  when  he  had  con- 
descended to  put  in  an  appearance.  In  the  meantime  Mel- 
bourne was  waiting  to  do  the  honours  of  his  flat. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  to  admire  the  colour-scheme  of 
the  library,  to  inhale  the  fragrant  scent  of  the  great  rose- 
bowls  and  to  enjoy  the  atmosphere  of  orderly,  warm,  sun- 
lit, soft-carpeted,  large-cushioned  luxury  which  the  room 
presented.  Then  she  turned  to  inspect  the  contents  of  the 
bookcases,  from  time  to  time  picking  out  a  volume  to  make 
certain  of  its  identity  or  discover  the  date  of  purchase :  oc- 
casionally a  book  so  chosen  would  be  placed  on  one  side  for 
future  borrowing  instead  of  being  returned  to  its  shelf. 

The  library  was  large  and  of  catholic  choice,  and  as  she 
moved  slowly  from  case  to  case  humming  to  herself  or  ex-» 
changing  a  word  with  Jack  Melbourne  she  tried  to  diagnose 
the  literary  tastes  of  its  owner.  There  were  rows  upon  rows 
of  Latin  and  Greek  texts,  more  than  the  most  studious  would 
normally  acquire  in  an  English  public  school;  histories  of 
Europe  in  every  age,  with  a  preponderance  in  favour  of 
modern  England  and  nineteenth-century  Ireland;  political 
economy  in  stout  plenty ;  political  science  in  six  languages ; 
monographs  on  every  political  question  of  the  day,  unbound 
Transactions  of  more  than  one  abstruse  and  learned  society, 
biographies  by  the  score,  and  innumerable  bulky  political 
memoirs.  The  cases  on  the  side  of  the  library  overlooking 
the  park  were  given  up  to  those  standard  works  of  English 
literature  without  which  so  many  "gentlemen's  libraries" 
continue  still  to  exist :  there  were  translations  of  German  and 


126  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Scandinavian  dramas,  and  of  countless  Russian  novels, 
French  and  Italian  in  the  original  tongues,  and  of  modern 
Irish  and  English  plays  enough  to  fill  many  shelves.  For 
the  first  time  since  she  had  known  him,  Sheila  was  conscious 
of  a  feeling  of  pitying  regret  that  a  man  whose  tastes  were 
so  purely  literary,  and  whose  instincts  were  all  for  comfort 
and  scholarly  leisure,  should  allow  himself  to  be  led  by  a 
perverse  and  fantastic  sense  of  duty  to  undertake  work  of 
which  every  moment  must  be  uncongenial.  Aloud  she  con- 
tented herself  with  remarking: 

"The  modern  young  bachelpr  knows  how  to  do  himself 
well.  We  shall  have  to  speak  to  him  about  this,  Father 
Time ;  a  young  man  with  his  way  to  make  in  the  world  has 
no  buisness  to  be  spending  money  on  this  scale." 

"Better  not,"  said  her  grandfather  gently. 

"But  why  not?" 
•:    "He  may  feel  it's  rather  more  his  business  than  yours." 

"Yes,  but  when  a  young  thing  like  Denys  doesn't  know 
how  to  look  after  himself — and  they  never  do,  you  know 
— it's  time  someone  took  him  in  hand." 

Sir  William's  was  not  the  real  reason,  as  both  he  and 
Sheila  knew.  Any  reference  to  the  way  he  lived  sent  a 
flush  of  anger  over  Denys'  sensitive  face:  it  was  an  im- 
putation that  the  descendant  of  the  oldest  landowners  in 
the  King's  County  was  unfitted  on  the  score  of  poverty 
to  surround  himself  with  beautiful  furniture  or  live  in 
presentable  rooms.  As  Sir  William  knew,  the  library  was 
like  a  chapel  to  him :  chairs  and  tables  and  book-cases 
had  been  bought  one  by  one  with  the  guineas  earned  in 
criticism  and  review  articles ;  the  Rodin  bust  was  the  fruit 
of  his  first  novel,  and  at  one  time  he  had  entered  in  a 
diary  the  date  of  each  purchase  and  the  character  of  the 
work  that  had  enabled  him  to  make  it.  And  Sir  William 
had  been  the  first  to  enter  the  flat  when  the  purchases  were 
complete  and  the  warehouse  had  yielded  up  books  which 


CLAY  IN  THE  POTTER'S  HANDS     127 

Denys  had  gone  hungry  to  keep  from  selling.  He  knew, 
as  no  other  man  knew,  the  sensitiveness  and  insanity  of 
Irish  pride. 

With  a  lingering,  fascinated  glance  round  the  sunlit  room, 
Sheila  strayed  into  the  hall  in  search  of  fresh  worlds  to 
conquer.  Jack,  who  was  resolved  that  she  should  miss 
nothing,  insisted  on  a  visit  to  the  bathroom  in  order  to 
impress  upon  her  that  it  was  the  only  chamber  of  its  kind 
in  London,  where  one  could  be  certain  of  securing  hot 
and  cold  water,  whiskey,  cigarettes,  and  a  morning  and 
evening  paper  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night.  Then, 
making  a  judicious  exception  of  the  spare  room  which 
he  was  occupying  at  the  present  time  to  the  destruction 
of  the  otherwise  universal  tidiness  of  the  flat,  he  led  the 
way  after  a  cursory  inspection  of  the  dining-room  to  Denys' 
own  bedroom. 

Sheila  entered  with  undisguised  interest  and  lack  of 
embarrassment.  It  was  a  fair-sized  room  furnished  with 
great  simplicity  in  old  mahogany.  The  wall-paper  was 
white ;  the  curtains,  counterpane,  and  carpet  a  deep  purple. 
Sheila  made  exhaustive  study  of  the  brushes,  combs,  mani- 
cure-set, razors,  powder-box,  and  other  shaving  sundries 
on  the  dressing-table,  sniffed  gingerly  but  with  subsequent 
relief  at  a  silver-topped  scent-bottle,  and  looked  at  herself 
approvingly  in  the  mirror.  On  a  small  table  by  the  bed' 
side  stood  a  Japanese  steel  cigar-box,  a  Turkish  coffee-pot, 
and  a  small  ebony  bookstand.  She  picked  up  the  books 
to  judge  of  his  taste  in  night  literature  and  discovered  an 
"Imitation  of  Christ,"  Carlyle's  French  Revolution,  Fitz- 
gerald's Omar  Khayyam,  an  India-paper  Browning  which 
opened  of  its  own  accord  at  "Bishop  Bloughram's  Apol- 
ogy," the  Book  of  Job  with  Blake's  illustrations,  Boswell's 
Johnson,  four  volumes  of  the  "Decline  and  Fall,"  the  Pick- 
wick Papers,  Morley's  Life  of  Gladstone,  Trevelyan's  Life 
of  Macaulay,  the  "Bab  Ballads,"  Poe's  "Tales  of  the  Gro- 


128  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

tesque    and    Arabesque,"   and    the    "Ingoldsby    Legends." 

"A  fine  confusion,"  she  remarked;  "we'd  better  go  back 
to  the  library.  There's  someone  getting  out  of  the 
lift." 

They  just  had  time  to  make  good  their  retreat  to  the 
library  when  the  door  opened  and  Denys  entered. 

"Punctuality  is  still  considered  a  form  of  politeness," 
began  Sheila  before  he  could  apologise.  "Father  Time  used 
to  tell  me  that  your  manners  were  irreproachable,  and  here 
we  have  been  waiting  for  twenty  minutes  with  my  grand- 
father indulging  in  cynical  chuckles  over  your  proof-sheets 
and  Mr.  Melbourne  and  me,  disconsolate  and  bashful,  sit- 
ting at  opposite  ends  of  the  room  and  not  daring  to  inter- 
change a  word  until  we'd  been  introduced." 

"Anything  up  -to  the  point  of  your  sitting  silent  and 
bashful  I'm  prepared  to  believe.  Not  that,  Sheila."  Denys 
slowly  pulled  off  his  gloves  and  placed  them  inside  the 
tall  hat  which  he  had  just  deposited  on  a  table  by  the 
door.  He  had  come  in  looking  careworn  and  tired,  but 
"his  eyes  regained  their  lustre  as  they  met  Sheila's,  and 
Sheila  was  pleased  at  the  tribute.  It  was  pleasant  to  feel 
virtue  going  out  of  her,  and  it  gratified  her  to  see  that 
however  tired  or  ill  Denys  might  be  looking,  he  never  failed 
to  respond  to  the  challenge  of  untroubled  enjoyment  which 
radiated  about  her. 

"Ring  the  bell  for  tea,  Denys,  then  set  about  making 
my  coffee,  and  then  tell  me  where  you've  been." 

"I've  been  in  the  ring  department  of  Mr.  Aspinall's  jew- 
ellery establishment  in  Bond  Street,"  said  Denys,  taking 
a  small  copper  coffee-pot  out  of  a  cupboard  under  the 
middle  window. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  ..."  began  Sir  William. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Father  Time,"  interrupted  Sheila, 
though  it  took  her  a  fraction  of  time  to  make  certain  of 
her  ground;  "did  you  ever  see  a  man  who  looked  less 


CLAY  IN  THE  POTTER'S  HANDS     129 

like  it?  He  only  wants  to  draw  attention  to  himself.  Tell 
us  what  you've  really  been  doing  and  why  you're  late,  and 
whether  you  enjoyed  yourself  last  night,  and  how  Margery 
looked — oh,  and  everything  else  that  occurs  to  you." 

"But  I've  told  you.  I  nearly  lost  my  ring  this  morning 
through  this  wasted  little  finger  having  shrunk,  so  this 
afternoon  I  had  a  piece  taken  out  of  the  ring  to  prevent 
it  happening  again.  I  must  have  been  pining  away  since 
I  met  you  last  week,  Sheila." 

"All  the  arts  of  the  orator,  you  see,  Miss  Farling,"  ob- 
served Melbourne.  "The  moment  he  comes  in  he  makes 
himself  the  centre  of  interest  by  pretending  he's  been  lured 
on  to  the  slippery  slope  of  matrimony." 

"It  was  a  plain  answer  to  a  plain  question,"  rejoined 
Denys. 

"But  very  effective,  none  the  less.  I  do  it  myself  when 
necessary.  On  those  rare  and  depressing  occasions  when 
I  dine  with  my  parents  I  try  to  stimulate  them  by  a  ref- 
erence to  my  possible  nuptials.  I  say,  'Father,  how  would 
you  like  Emily  Podge  as  a  daughter-in-law?'  And  then 
panic  sets  in.  My  father,  a  most  respectable  man — ask 
Sir  William  if  you  don't  believe  me — gasps  out  'Good  God !' 
and  subsides  into  the  soup.  My  mother  sobs  and  squeezes 
down  a  lump  in  her  throat.  My  brother,  who's  a  bar- 
rister, barks  out  that  I  must  insist  on  a  settlement.  My 
married  sister  remarks  to  the  world  at  large  that  the  men 
of  the  Melbourne  family  were  never  lacking  in  blind,  un- 
calculating  courage.  My  young  sister  heads  a  flank  attack 
by  expressing  sympathy  with  Emily.  By  that  time  the 
conversational  ball  has  been  started,  and  with  any  luck 
the  fish  has  made  its  appearance." 

Sir  William  put  down  the  proof-sheets  he  had  been  read- 
ing and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Denys,  you'd  better  leave  those  two  children  to  sparkle 
to  each  other  and  come  over  here  as  soon  as  you  have 


J30  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

made  tea.  I've  got  to  go  in  a  few  minutes  and  I  want 
to  have  a  chat  with  you  first." 

With  all  the  speed  he  could  summon  to  his  aid,  Denys 
distributed  the  tea,  made  coffee  for  Sheila,  poured  out  a 
large  bowl  of  milk  for  the  cat,  acted  as  arbitrator  in  a 
dispute  between  Melbourne,  who  asserted  he  had  had  no 
tea,  and  Sheila,  who  asserted  he  had  had  too  much,  and 
finally  drew  up  a  chair  next  to  Sir  William.  Their  con- 
versation was  confined  to  the  subject  of  the  report,  the 
date  when  Denys  was  to  start  work,  the  controversial  areas 
he  would  be  wise  in  avoiding,  the  limits  of  irrelevance 
he  would  do  well  to  observe.  Denys  was  impressed  with 
Sir  William's  intimate  and  detached  knowledge  of  politics, 
the  fruit  of  sixty  years'  patient  observation  of  men  and 
programmes  rather  than  of  the  ten  years  he  had  actually 
spent  in  the  House. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  Denys  that  they  avoided  getting 
to  any  closer  grips  with  the  subject.  With  Sheila  in  the 
room  possibly  overhearing  their  conversation,  there  was 
something  unexpectedly  embarrassing  in  the  perfect  con- 
fidence which  her  grandfather  imposed  in  him.  The  years 
of  their  friendship  had  been  years  of  unwearying  kind- 
ness from  the  older  to  the  younger  man:  it  was  easy  to 
speak  of  a  duty  which  transcended  ordinary  passions  and 
conventional  friendships,  but  the  nearer  he  approached  the 
goal,  the  harder  his  task  became.  Sir  William  had  chosen 
him  for  the  work  because  he  seemed  the  ablest  man  avail- 
able: that  the  proposal  had  ever  been  made  arose  from 
the  old  man's  misgivings  for  the  future.  He  deplored 
the  apathy  and  disorder  of  the  Conservative  party  as  much 
as  he  feared  the  rising  demands  and  increasing  consolida- 
tion of  Labour:  it  was  to  safeguard  the  future  and  protect 
his  property  for  Sheila's  enjoyment  that  he  was  employing 
the  services  of  a  paid  fighter.  And  Denys'  function  was 
to  draw  his  pay  and  fire  into  the  ranks  of  his  own  army, 


CLAY  IN  THE  POTTER'S  HANDS     131 

to  foster  the  apathy  of  the  Conservatives  and  the  con- 
solidation of  Labour  until  he  was  ready  to  desert  and  lead 
a  united  host  to  plunder  the  city  he  had  been  set  to  defend. 

After  ten  minutes'  conversation  Sir  William  looked  at 
his  watch,  rose  from  his  chair  and  shook  his  host  by  the 
hand. 

"Come  along,  Sheila,"  he  said,  "or  I  shall  be  late  for 
my  man." 

At  the  bookcase  by  the  door  his  flight  was  intercepted. 

"You've  got  to  wait  five  minutes,  Father  Time,"  she 
explained,  "till  I've  chosen  the  books  Denys  is  going  to 
lend  me." 

"My  dear,  I'm  late  as  it  is.  You  must  choose  the  books 
another  day." 

She  proceeded  with  her  task  of  selection,  unmoved  by 
her  grandfather's  words. 

"If  you  think  I'm  going  to  be  hurried,  or  that  my  wishes 
are  going  to  be  subordinated  to  yours — well,  you've  still 
got  an  enormous  lot  to  learn  about  me."  She  picked  out 
a  volume  of  Maeterlinck's  plays.  "I  would  suggest  ..." 
then  some  essays  by  Max  Beerbohm  .  .  .  "that  you  drive 
down  to  the  club  ..."  then  a  copy  of  Denys'  own  first 
novel  .  .  .  "and  send  the  car  back  for  me.  Mr.  Mel- 
bourne wants  to  be  dropped  in  Pall  Mall,  so  you  may  as 
well  be  useful  as  well  as  ornamental.  Meantime  I  shall 
stay  and  talk  to  Denys." 

"My  dear,  Denys  is  up  to  his  eyes  in  work  he  doesn't 
want  any  more  of  his  time  wasted." 

"As  if  that  mattered !  It  isn't  a  question  of  what  Denys 
wants,  it's  a  question  of  what  I  propose  to  do.  Now 
run  along,  Father  Time,  and  don't  be  unnecessarily  late." 

Sir  William  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  with  a  smile 
of  commiseration  for  Denys  took  Melbourne  by  the  arm 
and  walked  to  the  door  of  his  flat. 

"Now  I  can  talk,"  said  Sheila  as  the  door  closed. 


132  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"It  will  be  a  pleasant  change  for  you,"  said  Denys  with 
a  smile.  "Have  a  cigarette?" 

"No,  thank  you,  and  please  don't  interrupt.  First  of 
all,  are  we  friends?" 

"I  hope  so." 

"Honest?  Why  are  you  staring  at  me  like  that?  It 
isn't  polite." 

"I  was  thinking." 

"What  about?" 

"I  was  thinking  how  extraordinarily  pretty  you  were 
looking." 

"You  overwhelm  me!" 

"I'm  sorry."  Denys  spoke  with  annoyance:  the  tribute 
had  been  wrung  from  him  and  he  had  spoken  to  himself 
more  than  to  her. 

"There,  there!  And  you  said  we  were  friends.  You 
have  got  a  dreadful  temper.  Look  here,  have  you  for- 
given and  forgotten  all  I  said  in  the  train  the  other  day?" 

"Forgotten,  no:  there  was  nothing  to  forgive." 

"Nothing  to  rankle?" 

"No." 

"And  you  didn't  take  the  lectureship  at  Oxford?" 

"No." 

"And  you're  thinking  of  taking  up  politics  as  a  .  .  .  ?" 

"As  a  what?" 

"I'm  waiting  for  you  to  fill  in  the  word.  How  would 
you  take  up  politics?" 

Denys  flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigarette  and  looked 
straight  into  her  eyes.  "As  a  faith,  a  duty,  a  vision,  and 
a  crusade." 

"Ah!"  Sheila  picked  up  a  paper-knife  and  balanced 
it  on  her  knee.  "Wasn't  it  rather  a  relief  to  get  that 
out?  You  looked  dreadfully  uncomfortable  talking  to 
Father  Time.  And  how  does  one  start?" 

"One  awaits  one's  instructions  from  one's  principal." 


CLAY  IN  THE  POTTER'S  HANDS     133 

"Oh  yes,  that's  wnat  the  world  sees,  but  the  world  doesn't 
know  what's  at  the  back  of  Denys'  mind.  Only  Denys 
and  Sheila  know  that!" 

"Does  Sheila?" 

"We'll  assume  she  does,  for  the  sake  of  argument.  How 
does  Denys  propose  to  do  his  duty  and  realise  his  vision 
and  live  up  to  his  faith  and  carry  out  his  crusade?" 

"Isn't  it  rather  a  large  assumption?" 

"Perhaps."  Sheila  recognised  that  in  his  present  mood 
he  was  not  disposed  to  gratify  her  curiosity.  "Poor 
Denys,"  she  said  in  a  final  attempt,  "you've  never  learned 
how  to  tell  lies.  You'll  find  it  a  handicap  in  the  crusade; 
the  moment  anyone  asks  you  a  question  you'll  blurt  out 
the  truth." 

"You've  found  that?" 

Sheila  laughed  indulgently. 

"Sweet  creature!  It  might  be  twelve  by  the  air  of 
mystery  it  tries  to  wrap  round  itself.  Denys,  you're  looking 
most  awfully  ill.  I  usually  see  you  by  artificial  light :  with 
the  sun  on  you,  you  look  perfectly  ghastly." 

"I  bet  I  don't  look  as  bad  as  I  feel:  however,  we  shall 
never  be  able  to  decide  that  point.  If  you  hear  of  any 
serviceable  new  lungs  looking  for  employment  you  might 
let  me  know.  I've  almost  done  with  mine." 

"I  suppose  that's  why  you  smoke  without  a  break  from 
the  time  you  get  up  to  the  time  you  go  to  bed." 

"Yes,  I'm  spreading  a  deposit  of  nicotine  over  the  faulty 
places." 

Sheila's  voice  softened  and  lost  its  bantering  tone. 

"Why  don't  you  take  proper  care  of  yourself?  for  your 
own  sake.  Good  heavens !  don't  imagine  I  care  what  hap- 
pens to  you,"  she  added  with  exaggerated  indifference. 
"But  life's  a  poor  thing  for  a  man  if  his  wife's  a  widow, 
and  crusades  are  a  little  unsubstantial  if  there  are  no  cru- 
saders. Why  don't  you  take  a  rest?" 


134  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"Just  when  the  crusade  you  assume  is  supposed  to  be 
starting?  When  a  solicitor  has  no  case  to  go  to  a  jury, 
he  usually  goes  to  the  solicitor  on  the  other  side  and  says, 
'Let's  compromise.'  On  your  own  assumption  the  cru- 
sade is  looking  rather  bright  just  now.  I'm  honoured  by 
your  interest  in  my  health,  but  obviously  I  can't  afford 
a  rest  at  the  moment." 

Sheila  sighed,  to  cover  her  annoyance  at  having  her  con- 
cern for  his  health  misconstrued.  , 

"Well,  I  must  be  going,"  she  remarked.  "Will  you 
do  me  a  favour?" 

"If  it's  something  quite  unimportant  and  easy." 

"Denys,  when  I  take  the  trouble  to  call  on  you  in  per- 
son .  .  ." 

"In  a  most  becoming  grey  dress  and  black  hat." 

"Oh,  you  dear!  I'm  so  glad  you  like  them.  Anyway, 
it's  this." 

She  walked  up  to  the  mantelpiece,  climbed  on  to  the 
leather  cushion  of  the  fender,  and  lifted  down  a  small 
old-fashioned  oil  painting  of  a  young  man's  head.  The 
face  was  thin  and  close-lipped,  with  the  skin  drawn  tightly 
over  the  bones  of  the  jaw  and  cheek:  the  eyes  had  been 
fixed  on  the  painter  in  an  expression  of  reproach,  and 
from  whatever  aspect  the  portrait  was  surveyed,  the  eyes 
still  seemed  wistfully  and  hauntingly  to  be  meeting  the 
gaze  of  the  intruder.  As  she  wandered  round  the  library, 
Sheila  had  noticed  and  disliked  this  peculiarity:  few  peo- 
ple could  boast  of  more  untroubled  nerves,  but  she  felt 
any  long  time  spent  in  the  presence  of  that  portrait  would 
be  disconcerting.  She  had  no  doubt  that  Denys  came 
under  the  spell  whenever  he  entered  the  room,  and  she 
considered  the  influence  unwholesome. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  when  you've 
got  it  down?"  asked  Denys  with  an  amused  interest. 

"Put  it  in  a  drawer  or  anywhere  where  it  won't  always 


CLAY  IN  THE  POTTER'S  HANDS     135, 

be  looking  at  you.  I  don't  like  always  being  watched,  it 
makes  me  jumpy.  And  this  picture's  always  watching 
you." 

"I  know:  that's  a  portrait  of  my  grandfather.  We're 
supposed  to  be  rather  alike ;  Sir  William's  often  commented 
on  it.  I  wonder  he  never  recognised  that  as  the  man  he 
used  to  know  at  Trinity  College." 

"There's  a  very  strong  likeness,  and  when  you're  look- 
ing three  parts  dead  and  wholly  insane  as  you're  doing 
now,  you've  got  just  the  same  expression  in  your  eyes. 
Denys,  do  listen  to  reason.  This  is  1913,  your  respected 
grandfather  died  fifty  years  ago;  and  all  this  business 
about  martyrdom  in  a  righteous  cause  and  your  carrying 
on  the  war  in  his  memory — well,  bunkum's  the  only  word 
to  describe  it.  I'm  sorry  Denys,  I  know  it's  very  bad 
taste  to  talk  like  this,  but  you  do  ask  for  it,  you  know. 
May  I?" 

She  was  still  standing  on  the  fender  with  the  picture 
in  her  arms.  Denys  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then 
relieved  her  of  her  burden. 

"By  all  means,"  he  said,  "let  me  help  you  down." 

"Good!  To  be  quite  candid,  I  didn't  think  you'd  let 
me." 

Denys  bowed  ironically. 

"You  asked  so  nicely." 

"It  is  hard  to  refuse  me  anything,  isn't  it?  Father 
Time  finds  that." 

"Also,  I  didn't  want  it  for  the  moment.  Have  you  heard 
that  I'm  going  to  stay  with  your  uncle  in  Devonshire  next 
week,  to  help  him  produce  a  report  that  is  going  to  catch 
the  votes  of  all  our  hungry  and  discontented  democratic 
groups?  Do  you  know  that  your  grandfather  is  anxious 
to  send  me  into  Parliament  and  pay  all  my  expenses?" 

"Yes,  you  seem  rather  pleased  about  it."  She  was  net- 
tled by  his  accents  of  triumph,  piqued  to  see  that  at  present 


SHEILA  INTERVENES 

she  had  won  no  ascendancy  over  him.  It  would  have 
been  more  gratifying  if  he  had  been  converted  outright 
to  her  view  of  the  absurdity  of  his  crusade:  she  would 
have  liked  a  little  more  gratitude  when  she  expressed  con- 
cern for  his  health.  As  it  was,  Denys  seemed  to  be  boast- 
ing of  his  ability  to  get  on  without  her  and  in  spite  of 
her.  As  she  picked  up  the  parcel  of  books  and  walked 
with  him  to  the  door  she  turned  to  ask  w^Ji  a  smile  of 
singular  sweetness: 

"Did  my  grandfather  tell  you  that  I  had  suggested  your 
going  to  Uncle  Herbert?  No?'  Isn't  that  like  a  man? 
You're  all  the  same,  you  sit  on  the  wheel  and  get  whirled 
round  and  round,  and  the  faster  the  wheel  turns  the  gid- 
dier you  get,  until  you  actually  think  you're  turning  the 
wheel.  Good-bye,  Denys;  get  rid  of  that  cough  before 
our  next  meeting." 

"When  and  where  will  that  be?" 

"At  Philippi.     I  don't  know  when." 

He  accompanied  her  downstairs  and  put  her  safely  into 
the  car.  The  flat  on  his  return  seemed  unwontedly  dark 
and  lonely. 


CHAPTER  VII 
"THE  TRUSTEES  OF  POSTERITY" 

"Yea,  I  know  this  well :  were  you  once  sealed  mine, 

Mine  in  the  blood's  beat,  mine  in  the  breath, 
Mixed  into  me  as  honey  in  wine, 

Not  time  that  sayeth  and  gainsayeth, 
Nor  all  strong  things  had  severed  us  then; 
Not  wrath  of  gods,  nor  wisdom  of  men, 
Nor  all  things  earthly,  nor  all  divine, 

Nor  joy  nor  sorrow,  nor  life  nor  death." 

SWINBURNE:  "THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME." 

"So  you've  not  taken  wing  yet,  Lady  Daphne?"  said 
Denys  as  they  walked  up  and  down  the  broad-flagged  ter- 
race at  Parkstone  Manor. 

"Oh  no!  Not  now.  This  is  what  I  wanted,  what  I've 
been  waiting  for.  Just  for  once  in  my  life  I'm  going  to 
feel  that  I'm  justifying  my  existence." 

"You're  going  to  help  me?" 

"Will  you  let  me?  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do  .  .  . 
I  mean  I'm  rather  a  useless  sort  of  person,  but  if  it's  only 
sharpening  pencils  and  pinning  papers  together,  that  would 
be  something.  I  should  feel  I'd  had  a  share  in  the  work," 
she  added  with  a  dimpling  smile. 

"You're  going  to  do  much  more  than  that.  You're  going 
to  read  every  page  as  it's  written — aloud,  because  it's  got 
to  be  such  nervous,  heady,  breathless  stuff  that  you  can't 
keep  it  to  yourself.  Every  word  is  to  be  a  reproach  to 
you  that  you  have  lived  complacently  all  these  years  while 
disease,  injustice,  misery  clamoured  at  your  gates  .  ,:  :ti 

137 


i3 8  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Your  blood  is  to  boil  with  indignation.  When  it  ceases 
to  do  that,  when  the  words  fail  to  grip  you,  when  you 
find  yourself  doubting,  questioning,  arguing,  lagging  be- 
hind instead  of  being  swept  along  blindly,  helplessly,  on 
the  top  of  an  irresistible  wave  ..."  his  voice  lost  its 
silvery  ring  and  became  conversationally  matter-of-fact, 
"then  we  shall  know  there's  something  wanting,  something 
to  be  re-written.  And  you're  to  be  the  judge." 

"But  I   ..." 

"Yes,  you  can.  You're  the  only  one  that  can,  you're 
the  only  one  with  faith  .  .  .I'll  give  you  the  ideas  and 
the  language,  but  you  must  give  me  the  inspiration." 

"But  I  simply  can't !" 

Denys  laughed  at  her  open-eyed  perplexity. 

"I  wonder  when  you'll  appreciate  your  power  ...  I 
wonder  how  you've  gone  all  this  time  reproaching  your- 
self and  crying  for  opportunities  of  good  work  when  there's 
a  fire  burning  within  you  ..." 

"But  I  can't  use  it." 

"You  can't  help  using  it ;  you  use  it  unconsciously,  other 
people  use  it.  I  defy  a  man  to  spend  an  hour  in  your  com- 
pany without  feeling  the  pitiful  meanness  of  his  own  spirit 
and  wanting  to  make  himself  ever  so  little  worthier  of  you." 

She  flushed  with  pleasure,  then  said  lightly: 

"I  wonder  if  Maurice  feels  that." 

"He  will,"  said  Denys  thoughtfully. 

He  had  arrived  at  the  little  wayside  station  late  that 
afternoon  and  motored  up  the  winding,  heavily-timbered 
drive  to  find  Daphne  awaiting  him  at  the  hall  door  with 
a  smile  of  welcome  and  the  announcement  that  he  would 
have  to  put  up  with  her  sole  company  for  some  hours, 
as  her  parents  were  dining  out  with  friends  at  a  dis- 
tance. Under  her  guidance  he  had  explored  the  famous 
gardens  of  the  manor  and  wandered  through  the  silent, 
majestic  rooms  of  a  house  which  had  been  built  out  of 


"THE  TRUSTEES  OF  POSTERITY"    139 

the  debris  and  the  wealth  of  a  monastery  at  the  Dissolu- 
tion. In  time  it  would  pass  to  her,  with  a  fortune  large 
enough  to  pay  for  its  destruction  and  rebuilding  every  sec- 
ond year:  she  meanwhile  would  probably  be  living  in  one 
of  the  three  houses  which  Maurice  Wey brook  stood  to 
inherit  on  his  uncle,  Lord  Badstow's,  death.  Denys  thought 
of  the  grey  stone  castle  in  Ireland  which  his  father  had 
sold  to  provide  funds  for  the  United  Irish  and  wondered 
whether  the  slim  brown-eyed  girl  at  his  side  would  ever 
appreciate  the  goodly  heritage  in  which  her  lot  had  been 
cast. 

At  dinner  they  had  picked  up  their  intimacy  where  it 
had  been  dropped  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  on  a 
doorstep  in  Berkeley  Square.  Daphne  had  changed  in 
spirit  since  their  last  meeting:  the  look  of  wistfulness  had 
gone  out  of  her  eyes;  the  slow,  dimpling  smile  was  seen 
more  frequently.  He  gathered  that  she  had  acted  on  his 
advice  and  obtained  her  father's  sanction  for  a  course 
of  social  investigation  in  the  East-end:  her  mother,  it  ap- 
peared, had  been  puzzled  but  unexpectedly  yielding,  and 
any  objections  to  the  scheme  of  solitary  exploration  had 
been  brushed  aside  when  Maurice  Weybrook  with  good- 
natured  resignation  offered  his  services  as  escort.  Her 
mind  was  very  full  of  the  work  which  lay  before  them, 
though  she  preferred  throughout  dinner  to  draw  Denys 
out  on  the  subject  of  his  varied  life.  It  was  not  until 
they  had  finished  their  coffee  on  the  terrace  and  seated 
themselves  in  the  pond-garden,  so  that  he  might  smoke 
his  cigar  out  of  the  wind,  that  she  returned  to  the  subject 
that  was  responsible  for  his  presence  in  Devonshire. 

"I  don't  feel  you're  as  enthusiastic  as  you  ought  to  be; 
you  take  it  for  granted  too  much,  instead  of  feeling  like 
one  of  the  children  of  Israel  in  sight  of  the  Promised 
Land  after  forty  years'  wandering  in  the  wilderness. 
Doesn't  it  seem  worth  it  now,  Mr.  Playfair,  all  the  work 


140  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

and  the  sacrifice  and  the  hunger?"  His  account  of  the 
years  that  had  passed  since  he  resigned  his  Fellowship 
had  evidently  touched  her  imagination.  "I've  got  the  feel- 
ing that  now,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I'm  going  to 
be  of  some  use  to  the  world.  It  was  rather  depressing 
at  first.  I  remembered  what  you  said  about  the  'cost 
of  civilisation,'  and  it  seemed  so  impossible  to  do  any- 
thing .  .  .  anything  adequate.  Then  I  heard  that  you 
were  coming  to  help  father  with  his  report,  and  I  felt  that 
if  I  could  do  my  duty  just  for  a  few  months — pay  just 
a  trifle  of  my  debt — it  wouldn't  be  so  hard  afterwards — ; 
whatever  I  might  have  to  do." 

For  a  few  moments  they  sat  in  silence,  thinking  what 
the  next  few  weeks  meant  for  each  of  them.  For  Daphne 
it  was  to  be  an  achievement,  something  definitely  accom- 
plished in  a  good  cause  before  she  settled  down  to  a  life- 
time of  hollow  unreality,  a  memory  to  brighten,  and  per- 
haps to  disturb,  the  eternity  of  existence  with  Maurice 
Weybrook.  For  Denys  it  was  the  crowning  opportunity 
which  was  to  compensate  him  for  all  his  hardships,  the 
stripping  for  that  contest  with  the  possessory  classes  to 
which  two  generations  of  Playfairs  had  already  been  sacri- 
ficed; in  a  sense  it  was  also  a  private  race  with  ill-health, 
an  endurance  test  which  was  to  show  whether  he  could 
reach  the  tape  before  the  ultimate  and  inevitable  collapse. 
Yet  as  he  smoked  on  in  silence,  his  first  enthusiasm  grew 
damp  and  chill.  It  had  been  easy  enough  to  keep  his 
resentment  glowing  as  he  travelled  down  from  London ;  he 
had  quite  convinced  himself  of  an  insuperable  antagonism 
to  the  pleasant,  kindly,  and  rather  stupid  people  who  in- 
vited him  to  their  houses,  offered  him  their  shooting,  and 
insisted  on  his  presence  at  their  balls  and  dinners.  It 
was  somehow  different  when  he  was  alone  with  Daphne, 
receiving  her  whole-hearted  goodwill  and  assistance  in  his 
labours.  The  admiration  which  he  had  won  from  her1 


141 

and  the  influence  which  he  exercised  over  her  had  been 
obtained  on  false  pretences.  It  suddenly  came  to  him  as 
an  unbearable  thought  that  he  should  take  advantage  of  her 
confidence  and  turn  her  unselfish  humanity  to  serve  his 
vengeful  and  destructive  ends. 

"You  musn't  expect  anything  very  great  out  of  this 
report,  Lady  Daphne,"  he  warned  her  at  last. 

"But  I  do.  That's  why  I  haven't  run  away.  I  com- 
pounded with  my  conscience  because  I  thought  the  report 
was  going  to  be "  she  hesitated  for  a  word. 

"A  short  cut  to  Utopia?  It  isn't  intended  to  be  that. 
It's  a  promissory  note  which  we  hope  we  shan't  have  to 
meet,  a  bill  we  shall  be  able  to  renew  on  easy  terms,  at 
all  events.  I  give  you  your  grandfather's  views  of  it  with- 
out comment,  Lady  Daphne.  He  wants  the  report  used  as 
a  programme  for  a  new  Tory  Democracy,  because  the  party 
has  no  programme  of  its  own;  he  wants  your  father  to 
stand  sponsor  for  it  because  the  party  has  no  leader,  and 
he  wants  me  to  write  it  because  he  thinks  I've  got  the 
necessary  Grub  Street  facility  with  a  pen,  and  also — well, 
he  thinks  I  might  turn  my  attention  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons." 

"And  why  are  you  doing  it?"  she  asked  gravely. 

"Do  you  know  a  story  called  'The  Man  who  would  be 
King'?  I  want  power,  I  want  to  organise  the  democracy 
and  lead  it  .  .  ." 

"But  that's  what  we're  all  trying  to  do,  even  poor  little 
me.  I  want  to  help  them  in  some  way,  to  make  them 
happier,  and  more  secure,  better  fed,  better  housed " 

"I  shouldn't  care  if  a  murrain  carried  off  every  man 
of  them,"  broke  in  Denys  bitterly,  "when  I've  used  them 
and  squeezed  their  votes  out  of  them.  I'm  playing  for 
my  own  hand,  and  any  assistance  you  give  will  be  given 
to  me  for  purposes  of  which  you  know  nothing,  not  to 
the  democracy  that  you  want  to  elevate." 


142  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

She  paused  before  replying. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  believe  that;  there  are  so  many 
people  who  take  up  politics  for  what  they  can  get  out 
of  them.  I  thought  you  were  different  .  .  .  With  your 
power  of  doing  good,  too.  I've  been  reading  your  articles 
on  'Industrial  Death'  ..." 

"They  imposed  on  quite  a  number  of  people,"  said 
Denys  with  sombre  relish. 

"But  you  were  in  earnest,  you  must  have  been;  you 
wrote  as  if  you  felt  every  word  of  it  to  be  true,  as  if  a 
solemn  sense  of  duty  was  forcing  you  to  take  up  arms 
against  all  that  suffering.  Now  I  feel  I've  come  into  the 
wrong  camp.  You've  no  idea  what  a  burden  a  conscience 
can  be,"  she  said  with  a  rueful  laugh. 

"I  fancy  I  know  it  too  well."  His  hand  wandered  along 
the  stone  seat  on  which  they  were  sitting,  until  it  met  an 
electric  switch.  He  pressed  it  and  in  a  moment  the  pond- 
garden  was  lit  up  with  tiny  lights.  The  rugged  Triton 
seemed  to  spring  into  life  under  a  cascade  of  white,  bubbling 
water,  and  for  a  moment  he  watched  the  effect  with  pleased 
surprise  before  plunging  the  garden  once  more  in  darkness. 

"That  was  symbolical,  Lady  Daphne,"  he  remarked,  "the 
disconcerting  light  which  a  woman  with  ideals  sheds  on 
the  dark  counsels  of  men.  It  makes  it  much  harder  to  carry 
on  my  scheming  if  I  know  you're  disapproving  the  whole 
time,  or  if  it's  going  to  turn  you  out  of  doors  to  seek  sal- 
vation in  ways  untrodden  by  sinful  men.  That's  why  I 
turned  the  light  off." 

"That's  why  I'm  going  to  turn  it  on  again,"  she  said  with 
a  laugh.  "We  want  all  the  light  we  can  get.  And  now 
we'd  better  go  back  to  the  house.  I  can  hear  the  car  coming 
up  the  drive." 

The  following  morning  Denys  started  work  on  the  vol- 
uminous evidence  which  the  Commission  had  accumulated, 
and  for  a  week  his  time  was  occupied  with  marking  and 


"THE  TRUSTEES  OF  POSTERITY"    143 

copying  the  passages  which  appeared  most  relevant  for  his 
own  scheme.  The  original  idea  of  a  minority  report  had 
been  abandoned,  and  to  the  bald  and  frigid  compromise 
on  which  the  majority  of  the  Commissioners  had  found 
tardy  agreement,  Lord  Parkstone  was  prepared  to  affix  his 
signature.  At  Sir  William's  suggestion  he  had  now  de- 
cided on  the  publication,  simultaneously  with  the  appearance 
of  the  Blue  Book,  of  an  unofficial  manifesto  embodying  the 
reflections  to  which  the  evidence  had  given  rise.  Denys 
invented  the  title  of  "The  Trustees  of  Posterity,"  and  after 
a  week  spent  in  blue-pencilling  the  opinions  of  most  of  the 
witnesses,  the  skeleton  outline  of  the  book  had  been  sketched, 
its  principal  divisions  marked  out,  and  its  chapters  named 
and  headed  with  appropriate  quotations. 

Of  the  chief  reasons  for  a  stationary  birth-rate  little 
was  said.  The  tendency  was  not  traceable  among  the  wealth- 
iest classes ;  it  was  due  to  increased  love  of  material  com- 
fort and  a  consequent  deliberate  limitation  of  families  in 
the  middle  classes.  In  the  ranks  of  labour  there  was  not 
so  much  a  fall  in  the  birth-rate  as  an  inverse  ratio  between 
the  numbers  and  the  quality  of  the  new  lives.  Children 
continued  to  be  born  into  the  world  in  an  unbroken  stream, 
but  this  went  on  side  by  side  with  an  emigration  movement 
which  carried  the  healthiest  and  most  independent  stock 
across  the  seas,  leaving  the  relatively  less  robust  to  be  the 
parents  of  the  coming  generation.  In  the  introduction  to 
his  book  Denys  took  these  tendencies  for  granted  and 
offered  no  recommendation :  it  was  impossible  to  suggest  to 
the  middle  classes  any  inducement  to  increase  the  size  of 
their  families  and  intensify  the  parents'  struggle  for  exist- 
ence, impossible  to  prevail  on  the  enterprising  and  adven- 
turous spirits  among  the  working-classes  to  turn  their  gaze 
from  the  rich  promise  of  Canada  and  Australia  in  order 
to  compete  in  the  crowded,  inelastic  markets  of  an  older 
civilization.  "The  Trustees  of  Posterity"  confined  itself 


i44  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

to  the  rate  of  birth  among  the  labourers  who  remained  be- 
hind: its  recommendations  were  directed  to  securing  for 
these  the  maximum  of  health,  efficiency,  and  happiness. 

Lord  Parkstone  read  the  draft  of  the  first  chapter  with 
an  interested  eye,  and  approved  the  self-imposed  limitation 
of  scope.  "It's  going  to  cost  a  pretty  penny,"  was  his  com- 
ment, a  criticism  later  to  be  taken  up  and  repeated  in  ac- 
cents of  increasing  apprehension. 

"There's  no  lack  of  money  in  the  country,"  rejoined 
Denys. 

"True  enough,  but  sermons  from  that  text  are  not  too 
well  received  by  my  party." 

"It's  the  only  text  that  will  get  you  a  hearing  from 
Labour,"  said  Denys. 

Apart  from  the  question  of  cost  there  was  little  disagree- 
ment between  the  two  men  on  the  main  lines  of  the  book, 
though  the  older  man  had  sometimes  to  be  dragged  into 
timid  acquiescence.  Denys  devoted  an  ironical  early  chap- 
ter to  the  "Blessings  of  Inheritance,"  in  which  he  painted 
a  haunting  and  disturbing  picture  of  transmitted  scourges 
and  congenital  taints  of  insanity,  disease,  and  criminality. 
It  was  an  eloquent  plea  for  hygienic  breeding  and  the 
sterilisation  of  the  unfit  which  afterwards  delighted  the 
hearts  of  the  Eugenic  Society.  At  the  moment  Lord  Park- 
stone  shook  his  head  and  read  on.  "Housing  and  Sanita- 
tion" was  less  controversial,  in  so  far  as  the  ground  was 
more  familiar;  he  was  forced  to  admit  that  infant  life 
was  heavily  handicapped  so  long  as  it  was  crowded  into 
costly,  airless,  lightless  hovels;  the  only  question  was 
whether  the  party  which  embraced  the  majority  of  the 
landlord  class  would  consent  to  the  radical  demolition  and 
reconstruction  on  which  Denys  insisted.  In  the  same  way, 
"The  Just  Reward  of  Maternity"  advocated  a  policy  which 
had  already  found  acceptance:  the  act  of  bringing  a  new 
life  into  the  world  was  already  regarded  as  a  service  for 


"THE  TRUSTEES  OF  POSTERITY"    145 

which  the  mother  had  a  right  to  demand  recognition  from 
the  State.  The  recommendations  put  forth  by  Denys  only 
enlarged  on  a  familiar  theme. 

Any  real  divergence  of  opinion  was  reserved  for  the 
concluding  chapters:  "The  Security  of  the  Worker"  and 
"The  Worker  at  Play."  Denys  had  skated  over  thin  ice 
in  the  matter  of  "Drink"  and  "Wages,"  and  Lord  Park- 
stone  had  raised  no  protest  because  he  felt  that  the  two 
subjects  would  be  talked  out  if  the  book  ever  had  its  de- 
sired effect  of  fusing  the  Tory  and  Labour  parties.  It  was 
a  different  question  when  he  was  called  upon  to  bless  un- 
tried proposals  for  the  regulation  of  industrial  disputes.  He 
held  the  old  unscientific  and  disorderly  view  that  disagree- 
ments between  masters  and  men  must  be  left  to  adjust 
themselves  on  crude  principles  of  bargaining  and  threats, 
superseded  in  the  last  instance  by  arbitration,  a  lockout,  and 
a  symathetic  strike.  Denys  had  acted  as  special  correspond- 
ent at  the  time  of  a  four  weeks'  coal  strike  in  South  Wales : 
he  had  seen  the  faces  of  the  workers  thinning  day  by  day 
at  the  pinch  of  hunger,  and  the  new-born  babies,  baptised 
an  hour  after  birth,  being  carried  out  in  tiny  coffins  before 
their  mothers  were  strong  enough  to  walk  in  melancholy 
procession  to  the  bleak  hillside  cemetery.  Later  in  his 
career  he  had  watched  the  dropping  returns  of  new  business 
at  the  Anglo-Hibernian  whenever  a  labour  war  had  been 
declared. 

"A  settlement  is  always  reached  ultimately,"  he  told 
Lord  Parkstone.  "You  reach  it  now  by  force,  after  a  trial 
of  strength  which  may  cripple  the  resources  of  both  armies 
for  a  generation.  Why  not  settle  it  by  arbitration?  Why 
should  the  whole  community  be  held  to  ransom  and  driven 
to  the  brink  of  starvation,  when  it  has  the  power  of  en- 
forcing its  judgment  on  masters  and  men,  by  confiscating 
the  mines  and  factories  and  rolling-stock  of  the  capitalists, 
the  trade-union  funds  of  the  workers,  if  they  will  not  accept 


146  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

its  ruling?  When  men  have  been  made  voters,  it  is  a  re- 
lapse into  barbarism  to  make  these  trials  of  strength." 

"I  agree,"  said  Lord  Parkstone;  "but  should  Parliament 
be  called  upon  to  fix  wages,  and  would  the  workers  on  the 
spot — mines  or  mills  or  factories — feel  they  had  had  a  fair 
hearing  at  Westminster?" 

"Not  under  the  present  electoral  laws,"  said  Denys,  tak- 
ing up  his  pen  for  an  attack  on  anomalies  of  registration 
and  a  stirring  appeal  on  behalf  of  proportional  representa- 
tion. 

"The  Worker  at  Play"  aroused  fresh  misgivings.  Denys 
was  firmly  convinced  that  scientific  specialisation  and  rigid 
division  of  labour  had  produced  a  "heart-breaking  monotony 
which  was  more  potent  in  impelling  manual  labourers  to  a 
strike  than  any  question  of  wages  or  prices  or  conditions. 
The  one  good  which  resulted  from  a  strike — provided  it 
were  not  too  long  sustained — was  a  complete  mental  and 
physical  relaxation;  he  sometimes  felt  that  labour  unrest 
would  be  a  forgotten  nightmare  if  every  worker  were  given 
a  fortnight's  holiday  in  the  year  on  full  pay.  The  contro- 
versal  chapter  advocated  a  scale  of  hours  to  which  Lord 
Parkstone  said  the  manufacturers  of  his  party  would  never 
consent.  It  was  finally  agreed  to  leave  the  point  in  abey- 
ance till  Sir  William  paid  his  promised  visit  to  Devonshire 
and  could  sit  as  arbitrator. 

The  skeleton  draft  occupied  Denys  for  a  week.  He  hoped 
that  another  five  weeks  would  elapse  before  the  official  re- 
port made  its  appearance,  and  until  the  arrival  of  Sir 
William  and  the  disinterment  of  the  controversial  subjects, 
he  was  at  liberty  to  clothe  the  naked  bones  with  all  the 
whipcord  muscle  and  firm,  clean  flesh  which  an  unrivalled 
vocabulary  and  exuberant  imagination  could  evolve.  They 
were  days  of  great  contentment.  He  rode  and  bathed  with 
Lady  Daphne  before  breakfast,  wrote  all  the  morning, 
played  tennis  or  walked  in  the  garden  till  tea-time,  and  then 


"THE  TRUSTEES  OF  POSTERITY"    147 

wrote  again  till  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  In  the 
evening  he  sat  on  the  terrace  outside  the  open  drawing- 
room  windows,  thinking  over  the  next  day's  chapter,  mar- 
shalling his  facts  and  coining  a  mint  of  incisive  phrases. 
Inside,  Daphne  would  sit  at  the  piano.  She  had  guessed 
from  an  unfinished  sentence  he  had  once  spoken  that  it 
soothed  and  helped  him  to  listen  to  her  playing:  the  only 
regret  she  felt  at  the  time  was  her  inability  to  do  more  for 
the  work  they  were  producing.  When  she  had  gone  to  bed, 
he  would  retire  to  the  smoking-room  and  astonish  Lord 
Parkstone  with  the  daring  originality  and  fearless  logic  of 
his  opinions  on  politics  and  sociology. 

Even  Lady  Parkstone  unbent  and  assumed  the  outward 
garb  of  humanity  in  presence  of  Denys.  She  was  so  cer- 
tain that  her  daughter  would  ultimately  marry  Weybrook, 
and  looked  forward  so  confidently  to  the  publication  of  the 
engagement  on  Daphne's  twenty-first  birthday,  in  November, 
that  she  never  dreamed  Denys  could  offer  any  counter- 
attraction.  The  hours  they  spent  together  riding,  swimming, 
and  walking,  the  long  mornings  through  which  they  sat 
with  touching  heads  and  hands,  bent  over  proof-sheets,  the 
evenings  when  Daphne  lingered  at  the  piano  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  Denys'  thoughtful  face,  all  passed  smoothly  by  her 
without  awakening  any  of  the  apprehensions  which  were 
so  frequent  before  Maurice  declared  himself.  Denys,  for 
his  part,  made  himself  both  useful  and  conducive.  As  a 
conversationalist  he  was  invaluable  for  her  dinner-parties: 
he  always  knew  where  she  had  left  her  embroidery  and 
could  walk  unerringly  to  the  shelf  in  the  library  which  con- 
tained the  book  of  her  desire.  She  regarded  him  as  an 
able  and  obliging  young  man,  both  creditable  and  useful  to 
have  about  the  house.  Sir  William  had  guaranteed  his 
social  respectability  by  informing  her  that  the  Play  fairs 
were  a  power  in  the  land  before  the  Farlings  emerged  from 
their  original  obscurity.  It  was  careless  of  them  to  have 


148  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

allowed  themselves  to  have  become  impoverished,  but  for 
once  that  did  not  matter.  Denys  was  being  useful  to  her 
husband,  Daphne  seemed  to  like  him,  and  there  was  now 
fortunately  no  opening  for  an  indiscretion. 

Neither  Lady  Parkstone  nor  her  husband  nor  Daphne 
noticed  the  change  which  overcame  Denys  as  the  weeks  went 
by.  It  was  not  until  the  last  sheets  of  proof  had  arrived 
for  correction,  not  until  Sir  William  and  Maurice  had  come 
to  swell  the  last  week-end  party  before  the  Parkstones  went 
north,  that  the  continuous  strain  of  his  unremitting  labours 
began  to  make  itself  apparent.  Maurice,  to  whom  the 
symptoms  were  familiar,  took  him  aside  in  the  smoking- 
room  on  the  night  of  his  arrival. 

"Look  here,  old  son,"  he  began,  "you're  simply  ridin' 
for  a  fall.  We  must  turn  you  out  to  grass  and  feed  you  up 
a  bit  or  you'll  be  all  to  pieces.  Hold  out  your  hand:  now 
look  at  mine.  Mark  you,  I'm  not  supposed  to  be  particu- 
lar steady-livin',  but  if  my  hand  shook  like  that,  I  should 
expect  to  be  seein'  things  before  the  week  was  out.  Turn 
it  down,  young  feller  my  lad,  before  it  turns  you  down.  I 
know  what  a  wearin'  business  this  philanthropy  touch  is. 
I  tried  it  with  Daphne.  Ask  her." 

"It's  the  last  lap,  Maurice,"  said  Denys.  "I  shall  have 
finished  in  a  day  or  two  and  then  I  can  sleep  on  till  the 
last  trump — or  try  to,"  he  added. 

"Sleepin'  badly?" 

"Not  particularly  well,  Maurice,  I  never  do."  It  was 
an  understatement  which  the  night  watchman  at  the  Manor 
could  have  corrected.  There  were  few  nights  on  which  he 
did  not  see  Denys  retiring  to  his  bathroom  to  sit  with  his 
feet  in  almost  boiling  water  in  the  hopes  of  drawing  the 
blood  from  his  aching  head  and  inducing  sleep:  and  there 
were  few  mornings  on  which  Denys,  hollow-eyed  and  cough- 
ing, did  not  ask  his  permission  to  be  admitted  to  the  terraces 
and  the  garden  as  soon  as  it  was  light. 


"THE  TRUSTEES  OF  POSTERITY"    149 

"Any  more  faintin'  fits?"  pursued  Maurice. 

"You're  getting  a  most  awful  bedside  manner,"  said 
Denys  with  a  laugh.  "I  shan't  tell  you." 

"That  means  you  have,  or  you'd  have  been  slippy  enough 
to  deny  it.  Drop  rottin',  Denys.  If  you  don't  chuck  this 
business  and  have  a  rest  ..." 

"Well?" 

"I  shall  have  to  turn  Sheila  on  to  you.  She  won't  stand 
any  truck  from  you  or  anybody  else."  He  lowered  his  voice 
confidently.  "She's  the  only  person  her  ladyship,  my  future 
mother-in-law,  stands  in  fear  of.  And  that's  sayin'  a  good 
deal.  Not  half  a  bad  kid,  either;  only  she's  too  fond  of 
getting  her  own  way.  Now  you  toddle  off  to  bed,  old  Spot, 
and  sleep  on  my  good  advice." 

The  following  day  Sir  William  sat  in  judgment  on  the 
disputed  questions  of  policy  which  had  arisen  between  his 
son-in-law  and  Denys.  Without  exception  he  decided 
against  Lord  Parkstone  and  in  favour  of  the  bolder  pro- 
gramme. 

"The  cost  of  it!"  repeated  Lord  Parkstone  in  his  slow, 
immovable  fashion.  "I  shall  never  get  the  party  to  vote 
all  this  out  of  their  pockets.  Flesh  and  blood  wouldn't 
stand  it" 

"Then  you  must  find  a  way  of  making  omelettes  that 
doesn't  entail  breaking  eggs.  Or  else  you  must  resign 
yourself  to  be  out  of  power  for  the  rest  of  your  days.  Of 
course  it  costs  money.  That's  the  price  you  are  paying  for 
purchase  of  the  Labour  programme,  for  the  privilege  of 
carrying  out  their  proposals  in  your  way  instead  of  letting 
them  carry  out  their  proposals  in  their  own  way.  You 
speak  as  if  the  money  were  being  poured  into  the  gutter, 
Herbert.  I  regard  it  as  a  premium  which  you  are  paying 
to  insure  against  total  destruction.  It's  not  an  unreasonable 
figure." 

Backed  by  Sir  William's  support,  the  final  chapter  was 


150  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

finished  two  days  later.  Denys  scribbled  the  time  and  date 
on  the  last  sheet  and  laid  down  his  pen  with  a  sigh  of  great 
weariness.  The  earlier  chapters  were  already  set  up;  in  a 
few  days  he  would  revise  the  remaining  proof-sheets,  and 
on  the  morning  when  the  Blue  Book  made  its  appearance, 
every  bookstall  and  library  would  be  laden  with  copies  of 
"The  Trustees  of  Posterity."  It  would  bear  Lord  Park- 
stone's  influential  name,  with  suitable  acknowledgment  to 
himself;  it  would  be  cheap  in  price,  boldly  printed,  and 
filled  with  those  cartoon  diagrams  from  which  a  nation  un- 
versed in  statistics  takes  its  sociological  nourishment.  At 
the  moment  there  was  literally  nothing  more  to  do.  He 
leant  his  .head  on  his  hands  and  closed  his  eyes. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  when  he  awoke  to  find  Lady 
Daphne  standing  in  a  black  silk  evening  dress  at  his  side, 
turning  over  the  pages  of  manuscript  on  the  table  before 
him. 

"Sorry,  Mr.  Playfair,"  she  said,  smiling.  "I'm  afraid 
I  woke  you  up  by  crackling  the  paper." 

"Don't  say  it's  dinner-time,"  said  Denys  in  accents  of 
horror.  He  was  sitting  in  white  flannel  trousers  and  shirt 
open  at  the  throat,  with  rolled-up  sleeves.  The  watch  on 
his  wrist  reassured  him.  "Oh,  I  see  it's  only  seven ;  you've 
dressed  early,  Lady  Daphne.  Here,  take  this  chair." 

"Don't  get  up,  please.  I'm  going  in  a  minute,  and  mean- 
while I  shall  accommodate  myself  on  the  table.  Sheila 
ought  to  be  up  in  a  few  minutes,  so  I  thought  I'd  dress  first 
and  then  go  and  talk  to  her.  Well,  it's  finished." 

"The  prologue  is." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  prologue?" 

"Until  I  know  what  the  play  is  going  to  be,  I  can't 
answer  that.  The  play  depends  on  your  grandfather :  he  is 
going  to  decide  on  the  strength  of  this  book  whether  he 
thinks  me  worth  running  as  a  parliamentary  candidate." 

"He's  decided  already.     He  says  the  book  far  exceeds 


"THE  TRUSTEES  OF  POSTERITY"    151 

his  wildest  hopes.  When  he  gets  back  to  town  he  is  going 
to  insist  on  the  first  suitable  seat  being  offered  you.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  when  you  get  there  ?" 

"I  told  you  the  first  night  I  was  here:  I  am  looking  for 
power,  and  the  thought  of  it  has  kept  me  alive  when — oh, 
well,  I  don't  suppose  I  had  to  put  up  with  any  very  great 
hardships,  but  they  seemed  great  at  the  time.  I  want  power, 
and  when  I've  got  it  I  want  to  fight  for  my  own  hand  in 
my  own  way.  It's  as  much  a  duty  to  me  as  anything  you 
have  ever  felt  tugging  inside  you." 

"You  must  forget  it." 

"Why  should  I  ?" 

She  gave  a  gentle  shrug  of  her  white  shoulders  and  looked 
away  out  of  the  window. 

"I  don't  think  you  realise  yourself,"  she  said  at  last, 
"you  don't  appreciate  your  power,  the  way  you  force  people 
to  agree  with  you  and  do  what  you  want.  You  don't  know 
what  you've  put  into  this  book  of  yours :  it's  .  .  .  it's  won- 
derful. It's  the  finest  thing  you've  ever  done;  you  ought 
to  be  proud  of  it  and  the  good  it's  going  to  do.  And  in- 
stead of  that  .  .  .  You  know,  to  me  it  sounds  perfectly 
diabolical.  I  can't  believe  you  really  mean  it.  It  would 
be  so  awful." 

Denys  found  the  steady  gaze  of  her  .brown  eyes  discon- 
certing. 

"You're  asking  me  to  give  up  an  idea  that  has  become 
almost  a  religion  to  me,  Lady  Daphne.  What  do  you  put 
in  its  place?" 

"The  real,  sincere  spirit  behind  those  words  you've  writ- 
ten. If  they  meant  anything  to  you,  I  should  want  nothing 
more.  They  must  mean  something  to  you,  you  must  believe 
in  them." 

"I  tell  you  what  I  told  you  that  other  night :  if  a  murrain 
carried  off  every  soul  to  whom  that  book  is  addressed,  I 
should  be  none  the  less  happy.  What  you  don't  appreciate 


152  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

is  that  I  never  wrote  that  book.  I'm  proud  of  the  penman- 
ship, all  that's  best  in  me  has  gone  into  it,  and  I'm  proud 
to  be  associated  with  it.  But  the  fire,  the  poetry,  the  hu- 
manity— all  that  came  from  you  when  you  sat  at  the  piano, 
or  talked  about  it,  or  told  me  I  was  getting  apathetic  or  in- 
human. It's  your  book:  that  troublesome  conscience  of 
yours  has  made  it  what  it  is.  For  good  or  for  evil,"  he 
added. 

"For  good."  She  laid  her  hand  appealingly  on  his.  "It's 
probably  the  only  thing  I  shall  ever  ask  you  to  do.  You've 
got  the  whole  world  before  you,  you  can  do  what  you  like* 
with  your  life.  A  girl  can't,  you  know.  That's  why  I 
wanted  the  satisfaction  of  helping  you  in  some  way,  so  that 
I  might  feel  I'd  made  the  most  of  my  opportunity,  in  case 
it  was  the  only  one.  It  is  my  only  one ;  I've  had  my  day's 
holiday." 

Denys  was  touched  by  the  melancholy  of  her  tone  and 
all  it  implied. 

"Oh,  what  a  drear,  dark  close  to  my  poor  day ! 
How  could  that  red  sun  drop  in  that  black  cloud? 
Ah,  Pippa ;  morning's  rule  is  moved  away, 
Dispensed  with,  never  more  to  be  allowed! 
Day's  turn  is  over,  now  arrives  the  night's." 

Daphne  smiled  and  took  up  the  quotation. 

"Now,  one  thing  I  should  like  to  really  know : 
How  near  I  ever  might  approach  all  these 
I  only  fancied  being,  this  long  day: 
— Approach,  I  mean,  so  as  to  touch  them,  so 
As  to  ...  in  some  way  .   .   .  move  them — if  you  please, 
Do  good  or  evil  to  them  some  slight  way." 

Denys  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  manuscript  before 
him.  "Very  near  indeed,"  he  murmured. 

"But  far  enough  to  miss  altogether.  Won't  you — won't 
you  do  yourself  justice?  It  would  be  so  wonderful  to  think 


"THE  TRUSTEES  OF  POSTERITY"    153 

I'd  really  influenced  you.  Otherwise  ...  we  just  meet 
and  part,  and  I  go  back  to  my  dreadful,  wasted  life." 

"Will  you?" 

"How  can  I  help  it?" 

"But  your  life  had  altered — to  some  extent — between 
the  time  I  first  met  you  and  the  time  I  came  down  here." 

"That  can't  go  on." 

Denys  made  no  attempt  to  contradict  her ;  the  truth  was 
self-evident:  the  energy  of  Maurice's  onslaught  on  the 
cruelties  and  sufferings  of  civilisation  had  already  spent 
itself. 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that,"  he  murmured,  "very 
sorry." 

"But  why?    I'm  resigned  to  it" 

"I  hope  not:  resignation  means  the  soul  is  dying." 

"Perhaps.    What  else  is  possible?" 

Against  his  will  and  despite  his  struggles  Denys  was 
being  forced  into  an  impossible  position.  To  sit  idly  by  and 
allow  a  sensitive,  soulful  visionary  like  Daphne  to  forget 
her  dreams  and  sacrifice  her  ideals  in  order  to  marry  the 
man  of  her  promise,  was  to  make  himself  accessory  to  a 
moral  suicide ;  to  influence  her  against  Maurice  was  an  act 
of  treachery  to  a  friend  who  regarded  him  with  pathetic, 
dog-like  devotion. 

"I  cannot  advise  you,"  he  said. 

"You're  the  only  person  who  can."  Denys  looked  up 
quickly,  but  Daphne  was  gazing  out  of  the  window,  forget- 
ful of  everything,  following  out  her  own  line  of  thought. 
"I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  it.  I  didn't  think  I  should  bd 
happy ;  but  then  I  don't  know  that  we're  meant  to  be  happy. 
It  was  when  you  talked  to  me  and  seemed  to  understand 
what  I  was  trying  to  express  ...  I'd  never  thought  I 
mattered  before,  but  you  made  me  seem  important,  some- 
thing that  counted  .  .  .  You  told  me  I  could  inspire 
people  .  .  .  No  one's  ever  said  that  to  me  before,  no  one's 


i54  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

ever  made  me  take  a  pride  in  myself.  And  I've  never  dared 
talk  to  anyone  as  I've  talked  to  you — they'd  have  laughed 
at  me.  If  there's  anything  in  me  to  lose,  anything  worth 
saving,  you  know — you  ought  to  say." 

"I'm  not  an  impartial  judge;  you  must  get  someone  else 
to  advise  you." 

"There's  no  one.  Father  wouldn't  understand;  I  don't 
think  even  Sheila  would.  Granddad  would,  but  he's  not  an 
impartial  judge  either  ..." 

"You're  the  only  person  to  decide,  you're  the  only  one 
that  knows  your  own  feelings,  likings,  affections  ...  all 
that  makes  for  your  own  happiness." 

"But  it  isn't  a  question  of  feelings,  it's  a  question  of 
causing  a  great  deal  of  pain.  And  it  isn't  a  question  of 
happiness,  it's  a  question  of  duty." 

The  perplexity  and  despair  in  her  voice  drove  Denys 
from  the  position  of  neutrality  he  had  taken  up. 

"But  happiness  is  a  duty,  the  first  and  highest  duty  in 
a  life  which  may  be  the  only  life  you  know.  Don't  I  know 
that?  Don't  I  know  the  misery  of  neglecting  that  duty? 
Nothing  in  the  world  should  drive  a  woman,  or  a  man  either, 
Daphne,  for  that  matter,  to  marry  someone  that  they 
know  beforehand  will  make  them  unhappy  all  their  lives." 

Lady  Daphne  did  not  answer.  She  was  looking  over 
Denys'  shoulder  to  the  far  end  of  the  library,  where  Lady 
Parkstone  and  Sheila  stood  framed  in  the  open  doorway. 
Her  mother  made  no  comment :  she  was  too  busily  engaged 
in  digesting  the  last  fragment  of  the  conversation,  the 
familiar  use  of  the  Christian  name,  and  the  sight  of  her 
daughter  sitting  on  the  table  hand-in-hand  with  Denys. 
Sheila,  with  a  view  of  saving  or  enriching  the  situation, 
remarked  sunnily: 

"Now,  Denys,  it's  time  you  went  and  dressed  for  dinner." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DENYS  HAS  NO  TIME  TO  BE  ROMANTIC 


"  'Stay,  stay  with  us, — rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn  I* 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay; — 
But  sorrow  return'd  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away." 

CAMPBELL:  "THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM." 


"ARE  you  going  to  stay  with  the  Parkstones  in  Scotland  ?" 
Sheila  asked  Denys  the  second  morning  after  her  arrival 
in  Devonshire. 

"No,  I'm  going  back  to  town  to-morrow.  Your  grand- 
father is  going  to  make  life  a  joy  for  the  Central  Office  till 
they've  found  me  a  seat." 

"Have  you  been  invited  to  go  north?" 

"No." 

"I  thought  not.  My  young  friend,  you've  not  made  bad 
use  of  your  time  up  to  the  present;  but  are  you  going  to 
carry  it  through?" 

"In  what  way?" 

"With  Daphne." 

"Lady  Daphne  is  engaged  to  Maurice." 

"Not  so  much  of  the  'Lady,'  please.  It's  affectation ;  you 
don't  use  it  when  you  talk  to  her  and  tell  her  only  to  marry 
where  her  heart  is,  and  other  admirable  copy-book  senti- 
ments. Why  don't  you  strike  while  the  iron  is  hot?" 

"Oh,  many  reasons,  one  of  them  being  that  I  don't  care 
to  lay  hands  on  other  people's  property." 

155 


156  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"Property !"  She  spoke  with  concentrated  scorn.  "That 
is  just  the  way  a  man  likes  to  look  on  women.  If  ever  I 
heard  myself  described  as  someone's  property  ..." 

"You  won't,  Sheila.  The  Married  Women's  Property 
Act  will  be  revised  to  admit  of  your  including  a  husband  in 
your  list  of  chattels:  he  won't  be  allowed  to  call  even  his 
soul  his  own.  However,  we're  getting  away  from  the  main 
point.  There's  all  the  difference  in  the  world  between 
telling  Daphne  only  to  marry  where  her  heart  is  and  asking 
her  to  marry  me." 

"The  one  clears  the  way  for  the  other." 

"There's  still  Maurice,  who  is  a  great  friend  of  mine,  and 
it's  not  good  form  to  steal  a  friend's  fiancee  any  more  than 
to  steal  his  wife." 

"If  Daphne  broke  it  off  with  Maurice  ..." 

"There  would  still  be  a  number  of  minor  objections.  To 
begin  with,  my  income  is  chiefly  derived  from  your  grand- 
father's allowance  of  £800  a  year — for  five  years — and  an 
occasional  insignificant  cheque  from  my  publishers.  To 
that  we  may  add  £400  a  year  if  and  when  I  am  elected 
to  the  House  of  Commons.  A  dainty  dish  to  set  before 
a  daughter  of  the  Earl,  or  rather  Countess  of  Parkstone, 
Sheila.  Next  point,  I  have  no  grounds  for  thinking  Daphne 
cares  two  pins  for  me,  and  finally  I  don't  at  all  know  ..." 

He  broke  off  to  try  and  determine  what  his  feelings 
towards  Daphne  really  were.  There  was  compassion,  rev- 
erence, admiration,  a  distant  awe,  but  so  far  no  love. 

"Oh  yes,  you  do,"  said  Sheila  quietly,  "you  know  exactly 
what  she  means  to  you.  You  wouldn't  have  forgotten 
your  political  crusade  so  quickly  otherwise." 

"I  didn't  know  I  had,"  said  Denys.  It  was  the  thought 
of  the  crusade  that  had  saved  him  that  evening  until  Lady 
Parkstone's  unexpected  entry  put  him  out  of  danger  of 
(committing  himself. 

"Then  you  aren't  taking  the  crusade   seriously,"  said 


NO  TIME  TO  BE  ROMANTIC         157, 

Sheila,  with  an  air  of  finality.  "If  you  wanted  to  head  a 
revblution  against  people  like  poor  Uncle  Herbert,  you 
couldn't  do  it  in  a  way  more  upsetting  to  him  than  by  marry- 
ing his  cherished  only  daughter.  Have  it  which  way  you 
like:  either  you  think  so  little  of  your  crusade  that  you 
won't  take  the  first  opportunity  of  striking  just  where  you'll 
hurt  most,  or  else  you  think  so  much  of  Daphne  that  you 
know  she'll  probably  knock  the  nonsense  out  of  you,  and  in 
any  case  you're  not  prepared  to  sacrifice  her.  If  that's  the 
case,  don't  tell  me  you  'finally  don't  at  all  know.  .  .  .  ' 
You  must  pull  yourself  together,  Denys ;  for  'one  of  the  most 
brilliant  of  the  rising  school  of  historians'  you  incline  to  be 
muddle-headed." 

Denys  lay  back  in  lazy  enjoyment  of  the  morning  sun- 
shine. "If  you're  really  concerned  for  my  welfare,"  he  said, 
"you'll  pick  me  that  rose ;  I  can't  reach  it." 

"I  sometimes  despair  of  you  men,"  said  Sheila,  disregard- 
ing his  request.  "I  shall  take  to  keeping  rabbits,  they're 
just  as  rational  and  far  less  troublesome." 

"And  they  eat  whatever  green  stuff  you  bring  them 
That's  their  chief  recommendation  in  your  eyes,  Sheila." 

"Well,  I  should  only  give  them  what  was  good  for  them. 
What  are  you  waiting  for?  Is  Daphne  to  throw  her  arms 
round  your  neck  ?  Can't  you  see  in  her  eyes ..." 

"I  can  see  that  she's  engaged  to  Maurice.  As  long  as 
that  continues  I  stand  outside  the  picture." 

"And  when  she  breaks  it  off?" 

"If  she  breaks  it  off — well,  then  I  may  try  and  find  out 
whether  I  .  .  ." 

"Whether  you  love  her.  Yes,  you'll  probably  come  to 
me  and  ask  my  opinion.  'Please,  Sheila,  do  I  love  Daphne  ?' 
I  may  be  old-fashioned,  but  I  should  have  thought  you 
would  have  known  that  for  yourself.  Anyway,  if  you  don't 
love  her,  you  shouldn't  sit  and  hold  her  hand  in  the  library. 
Remember  Maurice!  Or  if  you  want  to  sit  and  hold  her 


i5 8  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

hand  you  shouldn't  do  it  under  the  nose  of  Aunt  Margaret 
and  half  the  house-party." 

Denys  filled  his  pipe  and  searched  through  his  pockets  for 
a  match. 

"I  feel  very  sorry  for  Daphne,"  he  remarked  reflectively. 

"Is  that  going  to  carry  you  beyond  the  point  of  sitting 
hand-in-hand  with  her  and  gazing  into  her  eyes?" 

"Not  as  long  as  she's  engaged  to  Maurice." 

"But  I'm  going  to  break  that  off.  I've  got  nearly  three 
months  till  November,  and  that  ought  to  be  ample  time.  I 
should  prefer  you  to  save  me  the  trouble,  but  if  you  won't 
I  must." 

"I'm  afraid  you  won't  find  it  easy." 

"Afraid?  Ah,  you  know,  your  faculty  for  giving  your- 
self away  amounts  almost  to  genius." 

Denys  laughed  at  the  insult.  "I  used  the  word  because 
I  didn't  like  to  think  how  hard  you'd  have  to  work  to  achieve 
nothing." 

"The  splash  you  make  falling  in  is  only  equalled  by  the 
splash  you  make  climbing  out." 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  me  to  say?  I  admit  straight 
away  that  it's  a  lamentably  unsuitable  engagement,  only  I 
don't  think  you'll  find  Daphne  breaking  it  off." 

"I  found  that  out  two  days  ago.  You'll  catch  up  if  you 
persevere.  But  it  takes  two  to  make  a  match  ..." 

"It  only  took  one  in  this  case,"  said  Denys,  with  his 
thoughts  dwelling  on  the  forceful  personality  of  Lady 
Parkstone. 

"It's  only  going  to  take  one  to  break  it  off,"  said  Sheila, 
with  an  upward  throw  of  her  determined  little  chin. 

"Not  Daphne." 

"There's  still  Maurice." 

"Maurice!"  Denys  burst  out  laughing.  "If  you  want 
to  rob  the  Bank  of  England,  there's  nothing  like  going  to 
the  governor  for  the  keys." 


NO  TIME  TO  BE  ROMANTIC         159 

Sheila  disliked  being  laughed  at  in  her  rare  moments  of 
seriousness. 

"You'll  have  caught  up  that  idea  in  a  few  weeks'  time," 
she  remarked  disdainfully.  "We'll  meet  in  town  and  dis- 
cuss it.  And  you  tell  me  if  you're  feeling  any  less  muddle- 
headed." 

Denys  got  up  and  faced  in  the  direction  of  the 
house. 

"If  the  gods  have  ordained  that  either  Maurice  or  I  am 
to  marry  Daphne,  I  should  prefer  it  to  be  Maurice.  We're 
both  equally  unworthy  to  unlatch  her  shoe,  but  I  don't 
think  Maurice  is  as  conscious  of  his  un worthiness  as  I  am 
of  mine." 

"Quite  nicely  phrased,"  said  Sheila,  turning  to  accompany 
him,  and  instantly  mollified  by  a  complimentary  reference 
to  her  cousin.  "With  all  your  faults  I'm  glad  to  see  you 
do  at  least  appreciate  her." 

The  next  day  Denys  returned  to  town  immediately  after 
breakfast.  His  parting  with  his  host  had  been  cordial; 
Lady  Parkstone's  valediction  had  conveyed  an  idea  of  sus- 
picion tempered  by  a  certain  frigid  relief.  Lady  Daphne 
had  remarked  conventionally:  "Hope  to  see  you  again 
soon."  Sir  William  was  bound  for  the  Central  Office,  and 
had  promised  to  meet  Denys  at  his  club  and  report  progress 
over  a  confidential  dinner ;  so  Denys,  after  calling  at  his  flat 
for  letters,  strolled  into  Pall  Mall  to  see  what  congenial 
spirits  had  been  spared  to  London  in  the  inauspicious  open- 
ing weeks  of  September. 

The  smoking-room  presented  a  scene  of  unexpected  ani- 
mation. As  a  rule  it  was  divided  into  two  rival  camps, 
with  one  delighted  group  surrounding  Sir  William's  chair  by 
the  window  overlooking  St.  James's  Square,  the  other 
drawn  up  in  a  semicircle  at  the  opposite  end,  listening  to 
the  pearls  of  great  price  which  dropped  from  Jack  Mel- 
bourne's lips.  Between  the  two  groups  lay  the  fireplace 


160  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

and  writing-tables,  a  neutral  territory  offensively  termed 
the  "Home  for  Lost  Dogs,"  and  peopled  with  the  Club 
Bore,  the  Club  Dyspeptic,  and  the  assorted  Club  Nonde- 
scripts who  dined  in  the  house  each  night  because  they  were 
too  dull  to  be  invited  elsewhere  and  too  law-abiding  to 
commit  any  breach  of  the  rules  which  would  lead  to  their 
expulsion.  Sir  William,  eternally  smoking  cigarettes,  fav- 
oured his  audience  with  a  running  commentary  on  men  and 
women  of  the  day,  couched  in  the  most  defamatory  lan- 
guage :  the  Lost  Dogs  described  their  stomachs  with  graphic 
realism;  Jack  Melbourne,  soulless,  immaculate,  and  button- 
holed, discoursed  of  himself.  Occasionally  the  two  groups 
amalgamated  for  the  purpose  of  a  public  debate  between 
the  two  captains,  but,  at  the  moment  when  Denys  entered 
the  room,  Sir  William's  chair  was  unoccupied,  and  many  of 
his  most  regular  henchmen  were  paying  temporary  alleg- 
iance to  the  other  leader.  After  a  few  words  of  greeting 
from  various  members  who  had  not  seen  him  for  a  couple 
of  months,  Denys  crossed  to  a  vacant  seat  beside  Jack 
Melbourne. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  for  months,"  he  began,  "though  I  ran 
across  your  father  this  afternoon." 

"Not  in  anything  heavy?"  asked  Jack  hopefuly.  "Oh, 
I  see,  figuratively  speaking.  You  should  be  more  care- 
ful, you've  put  me  in  a  flutter." 

"I  asked  him  if  I  should  see  you  here  to-night,  but  he 
thought  you  were  dining  with  the  Fortescues." 

"They  thought  so,  too,"  said  Melbourne  complacently. 
"They're  probably  still  thinking  so.  It  is  only  by  not  dining 
with  people  like  the  Fortescues  that  one  can  hope  to  stamp 
one's  personality  upon  them.  Where  have  you  been  hiding 
yourself  all  this  time?" 

"I've  been  down  in  Devonshire.  Don't  tell  me  that  you've 
been  working  in  town  all  through  August?" 

"I  won't ;  it  wouldn't  even  be  true.    I  was  belched  forth 


NO  TIME  TO  BE  ROMANTIC         161 

from  some  hospitable  Scotch  mansion  in  time  to  catch  the 
mail  last  night,  and  I  got  to  Euston  this  morning.  After 
a  satisfactory  breakfast,  I  wandered  down  to  the  Temple 
and  took  lunch  off  one  of  those  earnest  young  barristers 
who  come  to  Chambers  three  times  a  week  throughout  the 
Long  Vacation  in  the  hopes  of  snatching  someone  else's 
brief  or  intimidating  a  nervous  and  infirm  attorney.  I  then 
watched  my  father  into  the  Automobile  Club  and  touched 
him  for  a  whiskey  and  a  real  cigar  with  a  band  on  it.  Then 
I  came  on  here.  At  the  same  time,  I  have  been  working 
very  hard  since  I  saw  you  last." 

"What  at?"  asked  Denys  doubtfully. 

Jack  dropped  naturally  into  the  honorific  plural. 

"We  tried  the  Bar  of  England,  and  decided  the  Bar  of 
England  was  not  a  white  man's  job.  Then  at  our  father's 
suggestion  we  dressed  the  part  and  tried  the  City.  Cheap- 
ing-centre  of  the  world,  potent  deity  of  insurance,  bank- 
rate,  short  bills,  backwardation,  contango — which  you  will 
be  surprised  to  learn  is  neither  a  South  American  dance  nor 
a  sub-tropical  fruit.  We  tried  them  all — at  least;  when  I 
say  all,  we  spent  a  few  weeks  at  the  hospitable  board  of  the 
Anglo-Hibernian.  Now,  that  was  a  soft  option — while  it 
lasted,"  he  added  regretfully.  "You  just  signed  things  and 
drew  fees,  but  no  sooner  could  I  talk  about  'prospects  of 
life  at  age  fifty'  and  'average  mortality'  and  'suicide  clause 
barred,'  than  the  golden  dream  was  dispelled.  We've  got 
you  to  thank  for  that,  Denys;  you  frightened  them  into 
thinking  they  were  unsound.  So  they  were,  of  course ;  but 
after  Sir  William  resigned  there  was  a  gem  of  a  share- 
holders' meeting.  Our  father  retired  from  the  board  and 
took  us  with  him.  We  were  sorry  to  go ;  it  was  just  as  we 
were  leaving  finger-prints  on  the  pure,  passive  face  of 
Finance.  Again  we  have  to  thank  you  for  that." 

"You  can't  blame  me  if  one  lunatic  on  a  board  persuades 
a  working  majority  of  other  lunatics  to  bring  the  company 


1 62  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

within  measurable  distance  of  bankruptcy.    You  must  blame 
our  red-headed  friend." 

"We  bear  no  malice,"  said  Jack  suavely,  "we  extracted 
amusement  even  from  our  red-headed  friend,  the  egregious 
Wilmot.  We  returned  good  for  evil,  Denys;  we  worked 
on  your  behalf." 

Denys  shuddered.    "Let  me  hear  the  worst." 

Jack  addressed  himself  to  his  audience  collectively. 

"Our  friend  Denys  suffers  from  an  embarrassing  popular- 
ity ;  everyone  admires  his  good  looks,  his  subtle  and  compre- 
hensive brain;  he  accumulates  friends  wherever  he  goes, 
their  number  becomes  a  nuisance  and  an  obsession.  I  have 
been  thinning  them  for  him."  He  rang  the  bell  for  fresh 
stimulus  to  oratory.  "After  the  shareholders'  meeting,  and 
while  a  committee  was  sitting  to  investigate  and  report  on 
the  misdeeds  of  the  directors,  we  moved  for  the  production 
of  the  minutes  of  that  meeting  at  which  you  told  the  shy, 
bashful  Wilmot  exactly  what  you  thought  of  him.  You 
were  in  a  minority  then,  the  board  is  with  you  now;  we 
nearly  drew  up  a  petition  praying  you  to  come  back.  Little 
as  Wilmot  may  have  loved  you  before,  he  loves  you  less 
now.  There  was  a  moment  when  his  love  for  me  hid  itself 
behind  a  cloud,  but  I  made  the  amende  honorable.  For  I 
have  need  of  Wilmot." 

"You're  the  first  man  that  had." 

"I  have  need  of  even  the  meanest,  provided  they  live  at 
Riversley  and  are  on  the  register.  Listen.  Wilmot  has 
taken  a  summer  cottage  at  Riversley,  so  I  bade  Mrs.  Little- 
ton invite  me  for  the  week-end  and  bestow  pasteboards 
on  Wilmot." 

"If  you  continue  to  visit  at  Riversley  you'll  infallibly 
end  by  marrying  Sibil.  I  used  to  warn  you  for  your  own 
sake :  now  I  warn  you  for  Sibil's  sake." 

•The  interruption  threw  him  out  of  his  stride  and  checked 
the  languid  but  incisive  drawl. 


NO  TIME  TO  BE  ROMANTIC         163 

"Don't  be  so  needlessly  rude,  Denys;  you're  forgetting 
Wilmot  of  the  Flaming  Locks.  I've  just  thrown  Wilmot  to 
the  wolves." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  ..." 

"Why  don't  you  read  your  Morning  Post?  You  miss  all 
the  fashionable  engagements." 

"The  Eugenic  Society  will  forbid  the  banns." 

"The  Humanitarian  League  has  publicly  thanked  me  for 
saving  mankind  from  Sibil  and  womankind  from  Wilmot." 

"Well" — Denys  lit  a  cigarette — "one  good  thing  is  that 
you'll  get  no  more  free  dinners  at  Riversley." 

"Don't  you  think  it,  my  boy!  I  was  a  bit  nervous  the 
first  night  when  the  Pol  Roger  1904  didn't  appear,  but  there 
was  no  mistake  about  the  '87  Dow,  and  I  hear  now  that 
the  Pol  Roger  is  finished.  We're  starting  the  1900  Perrier 
Jouet,  a  bit  heavy  but  good  enough  for  the  friend  of  the 
family.  I'm  the  Friend  of  the  Family  now,  Denys." 

"But  why?  You've  got  out  of  a  discreditable  business 
and  a  dull  family  with  tolerable  adroitness.  Why  not  leave 
them  to  moulder?" 

Jack  held  his  tumbler  up  to  the  light  with  an  air  of  pro- 
found melancholy,  as  though  the  bubbles  rising  and  bursting 
had  some  personal  significance. 

"We  told  you  we  had  retired  from  the  City :  we  have  now 
abruptly  recollected  a  Stake  in  the  Country  and  a  Duty  to 
Society.  We  spend  our  spare  moments  collecting  allies. 
We're  going  to  stand  for  the  Riversley  division  when  old 
Collison  retires.  We've  had  property  there  for  genera- 
tions, and  we're  nursing  the  constituency.  'Nursing  the 
constituency !'  We  wish  our  father  could  hear  us  say  that." 

"In  which  interest  do  you  stand?" 

"We  are  not  sure.  You  must  ask  our  father,  he  seems 
to  be  making  all  the  arrangements.  Hallo,  here's  Sir  Wil- 
liam looking  for  you." 

Denys  escaped  the  later  passages  of  Melbourne's  recital 


1 64  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

and  followed  Sir  William  downstairs  to  the  coffee-room.  In 
the  course  of  dinner  he  inquired  what  progress  had  been 
made  at  the  Central  Office. 

"It's  not  as  good  as  I  could  wish,"  said  the  old  man,  "but 
such  as  it  is  you're  welcome  to  it.  There's  only  one  seat 
likely  to  be  vacant  that  they  know  of,  and  that's  the  Rivers- 
ley  division  of  Oxfordshire.  Collison  certainly  won't  fight 
another  general  election,  and  he'll  probably  retire  from  the 
House  in  the  course  of  the  next  few  weeks.  If  you  want 
to  be  nominated  you  can  be.  It's  a  fickle  seat  that  has 
changed  hands  four  times  in  the  last  six  elections.  If  you 
fight  it  you  can  work  old  Badstow's  influence  for  all  it's 
worth  and  make  Master  Weybrook  canvass  for  you.  I 
should  be  inclined  to  say  Tight  it.'  Even  if  you're  beaten 
it  will  do  no  harm,  and  they'll  give  you  a  safe  seat  next 
time." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  Denys,  "I  don't  want  to  lose 
any  time."  That  day,  without  warning  or  explanation,  he 
had  fainted  in  his  library :  it  was  the  third  time  such  a  thing 
had  happened  since  the  day  when  he  went  down  to  Devon- 
shire, and  the  following  morning  he  was  due  for  an  ex- 
haustive examination  at  the  hands  of  Doctor  Gaisford.  "By 
the  way,  do  you  know  who's  opposing  me?" 

"I  haven't  heard  yet." 

"Jack  Melbourne ;  so  he  says,  but  I  don't  know  whether 
to  believe  him.  He  doesn't  yet  know  in  which  interest  he's 
standing,  and  refers  me  to  his  father  on  the  subject." 

"His  father  is  a  crusted  Radical  of  the  pre-Reform-Bill 
period.  Two  ideas,  both  of  them  wrong,  illuminated  by 
two  quotations,  both  of  them  misquoted.  You  needn't  be 
frightened  by  Jack  as  a  candidate." 

"He  says  he's  been  nursing  the  constituency,"  said  Denys 
thoughtfully,  wondering  exactly  how  much  to  believe  of  the 
story  he  had  heard.  There  would  be  enough  public  op- 
position to  overcome  without  importing  private  animus, 


NO  TIME  TO  BE  ROMANTIC         165 

Riversley  was  too  uncertain  a  constituency  to  enable  him  to 
concede  even  Wilmot  to  an  adversary. 

"You'll  have  to  work,  of  course,"  said  Sir  William,  sip- 
ping his  sherry.  "Even  Collison  sits  by  only  a  small  majori- 
ty. But  I've  great  faith  in  the  book,  it'll  make  a  big  sen- 
sation when  it  appears.  Politics  were  never  more  barren 
than  at  the  present  time ;  it's  the  golden  moment  for  a  man 
of  personality  or  a  man  of  ideas.  You've  got  both.  And 
you've  got  friends  who'll  work  their  hardest  to  get  you 
in." 

Denys  sat  silent,  wishing  that  the  conversation  could  be 
turned  from  politics.  It  had  been  hard  enough  in  Devon- 
shire to  allow  Daphne  to  pour  forth  all  the  generous  en- 
thusiasm of  her  nature  on  his  behalf.  In  a  sense  he  had 
warned  her,  any  idea  that  he  shared  her  passion  for  human- 
ity had  been  shattered:  but  the  warning  was  ambiguously 
offered  and  incredulously  received;  she  could  not  conceive 
the  perversity  and  malevolence  of  his  purpose.  To  accept 
Sir  William's  assistance  and  good  wishes  was  even  harder : 
he  had  never  been  warned,  and  there  were  tangible,  bright 
coins  lying  at  Denys'  bank  that  had  been  placed  there  by 
the  man  he  was  deceiving  and  attempting  ultimately  to  ruin. 
It  was  a  relief  to  talk  with  Sheila  and  be  snubbed  by  her; 
his  secret  became  less  onerous.  From  time  to  time  he  had 
wondered  why  she  had  thought  fit  not  to  communicate  it. 
It  was  true  that  such  a  story  promptly  denied  by  him,  would 
gain  her  more  ridicule  than  credence,  but  he  was  fully  alive 
to  the  difficulty  of  giving  such  a  denial,  and  she  recognised 
his  difficulty  as  much  as  he  did. 

Conversation  only  became  tolerable  when  Sir  William 
turned  from  Denys'  future  to  his  own  past.  Till  the  end 
of  dinner  they  discussed  the  men  and  methods  of  the  Fourth 
Party,  each  somewhat  agreeably  surprised  at  the  other's 
range  of  knowledge.  At  the  conclusion  of  dessert  Denys 
felt  a  heavy  hand  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  heard  a  deep 


1 66  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

voice  addressing  him  by  name.  He  turned,  to  find  himself 
looking  up  into  the  face  of  Martineau,  Sheila's  Regius  Pro- 
fessor, his  old  tutor  at  Oxford  and  the  recipient  of  degrees 
in  every  University  in  Europe. 

"Eve  dining  with  the  Serpent,"  he  said,  looking  at  Sir 
William.  "Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  Playfair?  Why 
did  you  leave  us?  Why  didn't  you  come  back  when  we 
asked  you?  Why  do  you  let  an  old  sinner  like  this  tempt 
you  away  from  your  proper  work  ?" 

"Come  and  help  me  finish  the  port,"  said  Sir  William 
soothingly.  "Denys  isn't  drinking,  and  if  he  listens  to  you, 
you'll  only  unsettle  him.  You  can  get  fifty  men  to  write 
history  for  one  who'll  make  it.  What  scope  does  Oxford 
offer  to  a  young  man  ?" 

"You  can  get  fifty  to  make  history  for  one  who  knows 
how  to  write  it.  What  scope  does  Westminster  offer  to 
this  particular  young  man  ?" 

"Downing  Street  and  the  Abbey,"  said  Sir  William  com- 
batively. 

Martineau  picked  up  a  menu  and  handed  it  to  the  old 
man. 

"Write  down  the  names  of  the  men  who  were  Prime 
Ministers  of  England  when  Gibbon  was  writing  'The  De- 
cline and  Fall.' " 

Sir  William  handed  back  the  menu. 

"Write  down  Gibbon's  admission  of  the  debt  he  owed  the 
House  of  Commons  in  enabling  him  to  write  'The  Decline 
and  Fall.' " 

"You're  hedging,"  said  Martineau  triumphantly;  "you 
as  good  as  confess  that  history's  his  sphere  and  the  Com- 
mons are  only  fit  to  give  him  experience." 

"Put  the  question  to  the  culprit,"  said  Sir  William,  point- 
ing to  Denys,  whose  dark  eyes  were  shining  with  pleasure 
at  the  professor's  compliment. 

"History  for  choice,"  he  said  briefly,  "politics  of  neces- 


NO  TIME  TO  BE  ROMANTIC         167 

sity.  I  feel  I  have  to.  That's  an  answer  that  pleases  no 
one,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh. 

Martineau  prepared  to  leave  them.  "Don't  bring  him  in- 
to the  library,  Farling,"  he  said  warningly.  "You'll  lose 
him  if  you  do." 

Denys  paid  the  bill  and  accompanied  Sir  William  to  the 
smoking-room.  Over  coffee  and  a  cigar  he  decid'd  that, 
bitter  as  was  his  reluctance  to  continue  his  present  furtive 
double  life,  its  bitterest  feature  was  the  necessity  of  aban- 
doning the  work  which  afforded  him  every  prospect  of  wide 
and  early  fame,  and  in  which  the  ardour  and  passion  of  his 
being  lay  buried. 

e  •  »  •  • 

A  week  later  found  him  crossing  the  park  from  Bucking- 
him  Gate  with  the  intention  of  dining  again  at  his  club. 
It  was  a  mild  September  evening  and  the  only  immediate 
blot  on  his  happiness  lay  in  the  fact  that  as  usual  he  held 
a  cigarette  between  his  lips  and  as  usual  he  was  without 
matches.  Failing  to  meet  even  an  enemy  whose  matchbox 
he  could  borrow,  he  was  reduced  to  walking  through  St. 
James's  Palace  in  the  hopes  of  procuring  assistance  from 
the  lift-man  at  Sir  William's  flat  in  Cleveland  Row.  On 
approaching  the  doorway  he  found  a  car  drawn  up  with  the 
Farling  crest,  and  a  Farling  footman  standing  at  the  door 
with  a  rug  over  his  arm.  Then  the  sound  of  a  soft,  eager 
voice  reached  him,  and  Sheila  appeared  in  sight,  draped  in 
a  scarlet  silk  evening  cloak  and  followed  by  Maurice  Wey- 
brook. 

"Hallo !  Denys,"  she  exclaimed  as  she  caught  sight  of  him. 
"Maurice  is  taking  me  to  the  theatre.  Why  don't  you  join 
us?  We  haven't  got  a  stall  for  you,  but  you  may  be  able 
to  get  one  at  the  box-office.  Do  come." 

"Give  me  a  match,  Maurice,  and  then  I  shall  be  able  to 
deal  with  the  situation.  Sheila,  haven't  you  learnt  to  rec- 
ognise the  grim,  resolute  expression  on  the  face  of  a  man 


1 68  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

who  hasn't  dined?  I  can  consider  no  invitations  which 
deprive  me  of  a  much-needed  meal." 

Sheila  turned  to  her  escort. 

"Maurice,  I've  left  my  opera  glasses  upstairs.  Will  you 
be  a  good  angel  and  fetch  them?  That's  better,"  she  went 
on  to  Denys  as  Maurice  disappeared  into  the  lift.  "Our 
Maurice  is  like  a  legacy,  one  of  the  easiest  things  in  the 
world  to  get  rid  of,  as  a  general  rule,  but  sometimes  entail- 
ing grave  responsibilities — such  as  going  to  the  theatre," 
she  added.  "A  good  work,  but  very  depressing.  I  want  a 
lot  of  cheering  up.  That's  why  you're  going  to  have  supper 
with  me  to-night  after  the  theatre.  Homard  au  gratin, 
caviar,  a  wing  of  partridge,  everything  that  the  greedy  soul 
loves.  You  can  go  upstairs  and  ask  what  I've  ordered  and 
order  anything  more  that  takes  your  fancy.  I'm  in  one  of 
my  sweetest  moods.  I'm  going  to  be  really  nice  to  you." 

"Why?"  asked  Denys  blankly. 

"Because  it's  your  birthday.  ..." 

"But  it  isn't." 

"It  might  have  been.  It  might  have  been  mine,  too,  only 
it  isn't.  What  fun  if  we  were  twins!  Because  it  might 
equally  well  be  Maurice's  birthday;  because  it's  a  good 
world ;  because  I  love  you — oh !  what  on  earth  d'you  want 
reasons  for?  Because  I've  got  a  lot  to  say;  because  I 
haven't  seen  you  for  a  week ;  because  I've  had  Maurice  on 
my  hands  for  five  mortal  days.  Any  reason  you  like.  About 
half -past  eleven,  and  I'll  never  forgive  you  if  you're  late, 
and  you're  not  to  smoke  over  the  food  if  you're  there  first, 
and  you  must  send  Father  Time  to  bed  if  he  shows  signs 
of  being  in  the  way,  and  don't  make  a  pig  of  yourself  at 
dinner  or  you  won't  be  able  to  eat  any  supper,  and  Servan's 
homard  au  gratin's  simply  wonderful.  Melts  in  the  mouth. 
My  word,  I'm  out  of  breath." 

She  lay  back  in  the  car,  fanning  herself  with  a  glove  and 
bubbling  with  sheer  joy  of  life  till  Maurice  reappeared. 


NO  TIME  TO  BE  ROMANTIC         169 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Maurice,"  she  said.  "I'm  so  sorry  to 
have  troubled  you.  I  was  quite  right,  Denys  isn't  using 
his  spare  room  next  week  and  will  be  delighted  to  have  you. 
I've  just  asked  him.  Now  we  must  hurry  along  or  we  shall 
be  late.  Good-bye,  Denys." 

Her  manner  to  Maurice  was  so  conductive  and  her  refer- 
ence to  the  spare  room  in  Buckingham  Gate  so  inexplicable 
that  Denys  exhausted  every  combination  of  suspicions  as 
he  dined  and  smoked  in  preparation  for  their  meeting.  Since 
his  first  meeting  with  Sheila  he  had  the  feeling  of  being 
made  an  innocent  and  unwitting  accessory  to  a  series  of 
extraordinarily  elaborate  conspiracies  of  which  she  alone 
held  the  clues.  Some  day  he  was  certain  that  she  would 
involve  him  in  serious  trouble,  but  until  that  came  he  was 
forced  to  agree  with  the  unanimous  male  estimate  of  her, 
namely,  that  she  was  very  lovable,  very  pretty,  and  entirely 
unintelligible. 

He  had  been  sitting  for  ten  minutes  in  the  flat  in  Cleve- 
land Row  when  the  lift  clanged  open,  a  latch-key  was 
tempestuously  inserted  into  the  lock  of  the  front  door,  and 
Sheila  burst  into  the  dining-room.  Throwing  off  her  cloak 
she  seized  him  by  the  hand,  led  him  to  a  chair,  and  sat 
down  opposite. 

"Now  I  want  to  be  amused,"  she  began.  "Maurice  is 
really  depressingly  dull;  I  feel  so  sorry  for  you  having  to 
put  up  with  him  for  a  fortnight.  Oh,  I'd  better  explain 
about  that.  The  Badstows  are  shutting  up  Grosvenor 
Square  at  the  end  of  this  week  and  going  abroad,  so  Maurice 
will  be  at  a  loose  end  till  he  goes  to  Oxfordshire.  You've 
got  to  do  your  share  in  the  good  work,  so  I've  billeted  him 
on  you." 

"What's  the  good  work?"  asked  Denys  humbly.  "I  like 
my  right  hand  to  know  what  my  left  hand  is  doing." 

"Caviar,  please.  Oh,  more  than  that,  I'm  hungry.  Well, 
you'll  have  to  go  without,  then,  No!  I  don't  want  it  all. 


170  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

And  something  to  drink.  I'm  sorry,  what  were  you  saying? 
Oh,  about  the  good  work.  My  friend,  my  youthful  friend, 
my  good-looking  young  friend,  my  rather-adorable-young 
friend-if-you-weren't-so-deadly-serious-at-times,  give  ear: 
Maurice  is  seeing  life.  I  accompany  him  to  the  theatre 
to  convince  him  that  Daphne  isn't  the  only  girl  in  creation : 
he  goes  to  stay  with  you  in  order  to  see  what  a  comfortable, 
untroubled  existence  the  modern  young  bachelor  enjoys. 
Your  flat  is  quite  perfect  in  its  way,  Denys;  I  could  live 
there  myself.  Yes,  don't  say  it:  it's  too  obvious.  Anyway, 
you're  going  to  be  the  model  host,  and  you're  going  to  lay 
yourself  out  to  entertain  Maurice.  He'll  get  up  in  time  for 
lunch  at  the  club,  and  he'll  take  gentle  walking  exercise 
down  Bond  Street  and  the  Burlington  Arcade,  and  he'll  dine 
in  the  Piccadilly  grill-room  and  spend  the  evening  at  a 
music-hall,  and  then  a  convivial  supper  at  Romano's.  I 
helped  him  map  it  all  out.  It's  the  choice  of  Hercules, 
that  on  one  side  and  a  day's  slumming  with  Daphne  on  the 
other.  Oh,  and  before  I  forget  it,  old  John  Collison  is 
very  ill;  he's  giving  up  the  hounds.  It's  quite  on  the 
cards  that  they'll  invite  Maurice  to  hunt  them.  It's  a  hor- 
ribly expensive  hunt,  and  nobody  will  want  to  take  John 
Collison's  place  in  a  hurry,  but  if  Maurice's  uncle  backs 
him  up,  there's  another  nail  in  the  coffin  of  the  Poplar 
slums.  And  all  this  time  I'm  getting  hungrier  and  hungrier 
and  not  a  morsel  have  I  had  time  to  eat.  Why  don't  you 
look  after  me  properly  and  keep  me  amused  instead  of  leav- 
ing me  to  do  all  the  talking?" 

"I  can't  compete  when  you're  talking  that  pace,  Sheila; 
however,  if  you'll  fill  your  mouth  very  full  of  caviar  .  .  . 
Has  your  grandfather  told  you  that  I'm  going  to  contest 
Riversley  when  old  Collison  retires?  Nod  your  head  if 
you  can't  speak.  Well,  that's  the  most  amusing  thing  I 
can  think  of  at  the  moment.  While  you've  been  deceiving 
Maurice  I've  been  pegging  away.  You  always  took  a  very 


NO  TIME  TO  BE  ROMANTIC         171 

flattering  interest  in  my  political  future,  even  though  you 
thought  a  lectureship  at  Oxford  was  more  my  sphere.  Well, 
with  anything  like  luck  I  shall  be  in  the  House  before  the 
end  of  the  year.  I  think  the  first  round  goes  to  me,  Sheila." 

"Have  you  ever  read  Von  der  Goltz  on  'War'?  Lord! 
no,  /  haven't.  My  dear,  do  I  look  as  if  I  read  books  like 
that  ?  Only  it's  the  thing  that's  always  quoted  by  the  news- 
papers when  there's  any  fighting  on.  'Never  do  what  the 
enemy  expects  you  to  do,'  or  something  like  that.  You're 
playing  into  my  hands  the  whole  time.  I  saw  that  in  Devon- 
shire." 

"You're  nearer  the  truth  than  you  think,"  said  Denys 
reflectively.  "It  was  a  very  narrow  escape." 

"I  know.  If  Aunt  Margaret  and  I  hadn't  come  in  at  that 
moment,  Daphne  would  have  broken  it  off  with  Maurice 
and  you'd  have  gone  riding  into  the  lists  with  her  glove  in 
your  helmet.  Wouldn't  you,  Denys  ?  Own  up !" 

He  sat  looking  at  his  distorted  reflection  in  the  concave 
surface  of  a  soup  spoon. 

"It  was  nearer  even  than  that.  I  almost  said  I'd  deny 
my  gods  just  to  please  her,  without  dragging  Maurice  in  at 
all,  or  pushing  him  out,  rather — which  shows  how  danger- 
ous a  young  woman  like  Daphne  can  be  in  her  influence. 
Then  you  and  Lady  Parkstone  came  in  and  saved  me. 
There's  a  delicious  irony  about  it,  Sheila.  It  gives  me  great 
pleasure  to  think  of  your  recommending  me  as  a  likely  per- 
son to  help  your  uncle,  bringing  Daphne  almost  to  the 
point  of  robbing  me  of  everything  I've  struggled  for,  and 
then  walking  in  ten  minutes  too  soon  and  spoiling  all  your 
carefully-laid  schemes." 

Sheila  placed  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  favoured  him 
with  a  singularly  sweet  smile. 

"You  don't  regret  your  visit  to  Devonshire,  do  you?  I 
shouldn't  like  to  feel  that.  I  should  like  to  think  of  you 
going  to  sleep  with  Daphne's  face  to  give  you  pleasant 


172  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

dreams,  and  I  should  like  you  to  wake  up  and  think  of  her 
eyes.  They're  rather  wonderful  eyes,  aren't  they?  When 
you  look  into  them  you  feel  how  horribly  mean  and  small 
you  are  beside  her.  And  I  should  like  you  to  eat  and 
drink  and  smoke  and  work  with  the  feeling  that  her  eyes 
are  always  watching  you.  And  then,  just  as  a  test  case,  I 
should  like  someone  to  tempt  you,  offer  you  a  bribe  to  do 
something  you  might  have  done  before  you  met  her.  Oh, 
my  dear,  we're  none  of  us  perfect,  not  even  me.  And  then 
I  should  like  to  see  you  coming  to  tell  me  that  it  couldn't  be 
done." 

She  paused  to  enjoy  the  effect  of  her  teasing. 

"And  so  the  world  wags  on.  Oh,  I  never  congratulated 
you  on  your  nomination,  or  whatever  it  is.  I  will  now.  I 
hope  you'll  be  elected.  I'll  come  and  canvass  for  you,  if  I 
may.  And  then  you  can  congratulate  me  on  my  success 
with  Maurice.  When  he  comes  to  stay  with  you,  ask  him 
what  he  thinks  of  me.  Of  course  you  never  value  me  prop- 
erly, but  Maurice  will.  Well,  well,  we're  not  eating.  What 
are  you  going  to  have  now?" 

"I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  the  homard  au  gratin,"  said 
Denys,  reclaiming  the  dish. 

"My  dear,  it's  frightfully  indigestible ;  you'll  die  in  silent 
agony  if  you  do." 

"Servan  will  think  we're  angry  with  him  if  I  leave  any," 
said  Denys  reaching  for  the  red  pepper. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   RTVERSLEY   ELECTION 

"If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 
God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kill  you  1" 

BROWNING:  "SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTEK." 

"DENYS'  can't  complain  that  this  election  isn't  exciting 
public  interest,"  remarked  Sir  William,  turning  to  the  mid- 
dle page  of  The  Times;  "the  papers  won't  leave  it  alone." 

"He's  a  marked  man  to  the  end  of  his  days,  whether  he 
gets  in  or  not,"  said  Maurice. 

Lord  and  Lady  Parkstone,  Lady  Daphne,  Sheila,  Sir 
William,  Denys,  and  a  number  of  willing  political  workers 
were  gathered  together  in  Lord  Badstow's  house  in  Oxford- 
shire, with  Maurice  acting  as  host  in  the  absence  of  his 
uncle.  They  would  have  met  there  at  the  end  of  the  month 
in  any  case,  to  be  present  at  the  ball  which  Maurice  had 
obtained  permission  to  give  on  condition  of  holding  it  at  a 
time  when  his  uncle  would  not  be  disturbed  by  furniture- 
moving.  The  election  had  precipitated  their  arrival.  As 
soon  as  Parliament  met  for  the  autumn  session,  the  long- 
expected  retirement  of  John  Collison  had  been  announced, 
the  writ  issued  for  the  election  of  a  new  member,  and  a 
feverish  canvass  instituted  on  behalf  of  both  candidates. 
As  Sir  William  remarked,  the  election  was  exciting  un- 
usual interest,  not  so  much  on  account  of  its  effect  on  the 
Government  as  by  reason  of  the  personality  of  one  of  the 
candidates. 

A  fortnight  earlier  "The  Trustees  of  Posterity"  had  been 

173 


i74  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

flung  in  the  teeth  of  a  world  made  hungry  by  inspired  para- 
graphs of  a  cryptic  and  appetising  savour,  and  as  Lord 
Parkstone's  preface  made  handsome  acknowledgment  of 
the  services  rendered  by  Mr.  Denys  Play  fair,  "the  well- 
known  writer  on  social  subjects,"  it  followed  that  Mr. 
Denys  Play  fair's  nomination  received  unprecedented  notice. 
No  one  had  quite  decided  what  to  make  of  the  book.  The 
high  Tory  organs  denounced  it  as  "the  betrayal  of  Con- 
servatism," their  more  advanced  contemporaries  spoke  of  it 
as  "a  courageous  and  enlightened  statement  of  policy,"  "a 
sincere  and  thoughtful  attempt  to  solve  some  of  the  most 
complex  problems  of  modern  civilisation."  The  Liberal 
papers  headed  their  leading  articles,  "The  Passing  of  Ob- 
scurantism," the  Radicals  asked  with  mild  and  anxious 
scorn  whether  Saul  also  was  among  the  prophets. 

Sir  William,  giving  full  play  to  his  passion  for  intrigue, 
directed  his  attention  on  the  one  hand  to  the  attitude  of  the 
official  Conservative  leaders,  on  the  other  to  the  verdict  of 
the  Labour  Party.  No  pronouncement  was  at  present 
forthcoming  from  the  Front  Bench,  which  was  divided  be- 
tween admiration  of  Lord  Parkstone's  imaginative  original- 
ity and  consternation  at  his  audacity.  The  Labour  Party 
was  unequivocal  in  its  support.  After  formally  proclaiming 
its  customary  detachment  from  both  the  collusive,  historic 
parties,  it  solemnly  blessed  the  programme  set  out  in  the 
book  and  promised  its  unwavering  allegiance  to  the  Con- 
servative Party  or  any  portion  of  it  which  rallied  round 
the  standard  of  Lord  Parkstone. 

For  three  happy  weeks  Sir  William  directed,  educated, 
and  misled  public  opinion  in  London.  He  was  responsible 
for  the  anticipatory  paragraphs:  a  ponderous  episcopal 
edict  of  excommunication  was  the  result  of  a  luncheon  at 
the  Athenaeum  which  he  had  devoted  to  explaining  that 
"The  Trustees  of  Posterity"  in  its  chapter  on  Eugenics  in- 
terfered with  the  divine  monopoly  of  control  in  the  matter 


THE  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION          175 

of  population.  As  he  told  Denys:  "You'll  never  get  a  re- 
form carried  out  in  this  country  till  you've  made  sure  of 
the  bishops'  opposition."  He  had  contributed  at  length  to 
a  "Symposium  of  Representative  Men"  organised  by  a  lead- 
ing London  halfpenny  paper,  and  he  hoped  to  secure  a  tell- 
ing cartoon  in  the  influential  pages  of  Punch.  Support  and 
opposition  were  as  nothing  compared  with  notoriety:  the 
great  thing,  he  explained,  was  to  get  the  book  talked  about ; 
and  by  the  time  he  left  town  for  Riversley,  the  leaders  of 
the  party  had  decided  to  refrain  from  active  opposition, 
Labour  had  announced  its  intention  of  voting  solidly  for 
Denys,  the  Liberal  press  was  peevishly  declaiming  against 
the  invasion  of  its  "corner"  in  ameliorative  legislation, 
and  a  deputation  of  Female  Suffrage  Societies  had  almost 
been  beguiled  by  Sir  William's  confidential  profundity  into 
a  belief  that  their  cause  was  intimately  wrapped  up  with 
the  success  of  the  Conservative  Candidate. 

"I've  been  through  it  myself,"  he  told  Daphne,  "and  I've 
helped  others  to  go  through  it,  so  I  oughtn't  to  complain. 
But  how  any  man  can  face  the  pettiness,  the  vulgarity,  the 
bitterness  of  a  contested  election,  passes  my  comprehension. 
It's  all  right  when  you're  in— except  for  the  people  you  find 
there — but  the  getting  in  ...  How  Denys  must  hate  it !" 

The  election  was  not  being  conducted  with  any  unusual 
acerbity,  the  heckling  was  no  more  strenuous,  the  repartees 
were  no  cheaper,  the  personalities  no  more  offensive,  but  an 
unpleasant  episode  had  occurred  in  the  early  days  of  the 
canvass  which  had  compelled  Sir  William,  seasoned  as  he 
was  to  the  brutality  of  electioneering,  to  take  a  lower  view 
of  the  English  canons  of  taste.  Denys  was  making  a  door- 
to-door  canvass  which  brought  him  into  the  neighbourhood 
of  an  extensively  patronised  public  house.  A  van  was  stand- 
ing at  the  door  with  the  driver  on  the  box  refreshing  him- 
self. Catching  sight  of  Denys  he  put  down  his  mug  with 
the  words,  "Hi !  look  here."  Denys  looked  up  and  saw  the 


176  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

whip  lash  being  tied  into  a  knot  and  slipped  over  the  driver's 
left  thumb.  With  a  jerk  of  the  right  hand  the  lash  was 
drawn  taut,  and  the  driver  exclaimed,  with  an  intonation 
of  pain,  "Well,  I'm  hanged!"  There  was  an  appreciative 
laugh  from  a  little  group  of  loafters  at  the  door,  followed 
by  a  derisive  cheer,  "Vote  for  Playfair,"  then  a  chorus, 
"Hanged  if  we  do!"  At  every  subsequent  meeting  Denys 
could  be  sure  of  an  ironical  interruption  exhorting  the 
world  to  vote  for  Playfair,  and  a  voluminous  determined 
chorus  of  "Hanged  if  we  do."  Lately  the  chorus  had 
changed  their  note  and  announced  that  they  would  be  shot 
if  they  did.  Evidently  an  unknown  friend  had  given  one 
political  argument  time  to  sink  in  before  producing  another. 

Denys  bore  the  attack  with  more  equanimity  than  his 
supporters.  The  story  of  the  double  tragedy  was  set  out 
in  black  and  white :  the  marvel  to  him  was,  not  that  it  had 
been  raked  up  after  so  long,  but  that  it  had  never  been 
used  against  him  before.  Lord  Parkstone,  who  had  been 
admitted  to  the  secret  before  meeting  Denys,  could  only 
shrug  his  shoulders  and  sigh  regretfully;  Daphne  went 
white  with  anger  when  the  allusion  was  made  plain  to  her, 
and  Maurice  closed  the  eye  of  one  opponent  and  cut  the 
lip  of  another  in  the  interests  of  good  manners.  A  note  of 
apology  for  the  methods  of  his  friends  absolved  Jack 
Melbourne  from  complicity  but  did  nothing  to  identify  the 
originator  of  the  attack.  Sheila,  holding  herself  superbly 
aloof  from  the  whole  campaign,  neither  applauded  fior 
sympathised. 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  when  it's  all  over,"  she  remarked 
with  an  ill-suppressed  yawn.  "If  this  is  an  average  elec- 
tion, preserve  me  from  politics." 

"You're  hard  to  please,  miss,"  said  her  grandfather. 
"It's  very  far  from  being  an  average  election,  as  you'd  know 
if  you  came  to  any  of  that  young  man's  meetings.  They're 
wonderful  performances.  It's  oratory.  Sometimes  I  get 


THE  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION          177 

nervous  and  fidgety  in  my  chair  for  fear  he'll  over-reach 
himself,  but  he  doesn't.  He  doesn't.  He  can  use  language 
that  other  men  would  be  afraid  to  use;  they'd  be  self- 
conscious.  He'll  have  to  restrain  himself  in  the  House, 
they  can't  stand  poetry  in  a  man's  speeches  there,  but  for 
a  popular  audience  it's  astonishingly  effective.  He  works 
them  up  to  extraordinary  enthusiasm." 

Sheila  sniffed  contemptuously.  "Some  people  might  say 
that  you're  all  a  little  infatuated  about  that  boy.  I  should 
have  thought  anybody  could  have  impressed  the  sort  of 
audience  you  get  here." 

"It's  not  confined  to  the  audience." 

"I'm  waiting  for  it  to  come  my  way." 

"Of  course  you're  an  exception  to  most  rules,"  said  Sir 
William  banteringly,  "but  it's  something  of  an  achievement 
to  have  pumped  so  much  energy  and  devotion  into  Maurice. 
Let  alone  Daphne,"  he  added  in  an  undertone;  "she's  a 
different  girl." 

Sheila  looked  across  the  room  to  a  corner  where  her 
cousin  sat  ticking  off  names  in  a  note-book.  Since  the 
election  started,  Daphne's  development  had  been  astonish- 
ing. Diffidence  and  timidity  had  fallen  from  her  like  a 
cloak:  the  inspiration  of  working  for  Denys  transformed 
her.  Lord  Parkstone  raised  his  eyebrows  in  mild  surprise 
to  see  her  canvassing  and  arguing,  fearlessly  approaching 
stubborn  and  discourteous  recalcitrants,  wheedling  the  lag- 
ga^-ds,  and  from  one  and  all  refusing  to  take  "No"  for  an 
answer.  Lady  Parkstone,  too,  was  surprised,  and  thought 
it  all  as  undignified  as  it  was  unnecessary :  nothing  but  her 
promise  to  Sir  William  restrained  her  from  active  inter- 
ference. Denys  was  wrapped  too  deeply  in  his  dream  to 
notice  anything.  Sheila  looked  on  with  the  contemptuous 
tolerance  of  a  god  watching  predestination  at  work. 

"And  Denys  himself  is  another  revelation,"  went  on  Sir 
William ;  "he  goes  through  it  all  like  a  sleep-walker.  Why, 


178  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

I  can  remember  when  he  was  so  shy  that  you  couldn't  get 
him  to  talk  till  you  were  alone  with  him.  And  sensitive! 
He  was  just  like  a  girl.  You  remember  that  dreadful  night 
on  board,  when  I  got  on  to  the  subject  of  his  poor  grand- 
father, he  went  scarlet  and  you  could  see  him  trembling  all 
over.  Nothing  moves  him  now.  He's  self -controlled,  un- 
conscious of  all  that's  going  on  round  him,  in  fact,  like 
someone  in  a  trance.  He's  twice  the  man  he  was." 

"About  half,  I  should  have  said,"  commented  Sheila 
deliberately. 

Sir  William  drew  her  on  to  his  knee  and  captured  a 
hand.  "Quarrelling,  as  usual?" 

"No."  Sheila  spoke  with  a  weary  effort  to  seem  patient. 
"Only  you're  all  so  busy  with  this  rotten  election  that  you 
none  of  you  see  you're  killing  him  by  inches.  I  mean 
exactly  what  I  say — you've  about  halved  his  prospects  of 
life  since  you  got  him  down  here." 

"He's  all  right,"  said  Sir  William,  a  shade  uneas- 
ily. 

"Anyone  would  think  I  was  the  only  person  in  the  house 
with  eyes  in  my  head.  You  needn't  believe  me  unless  you 
like,  but  I  tell  you  he's  dying  before  your  eyes."  She  spoke 
in  a  whisper,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice  that  her  grandfather 
was  careful  not  to  notice.  "Oh,  don't  imagine  I  care,  it's 
nothing  to  do  with  me;  but  the  way  you  and  Daphne  and 
Maurice  and  Uncle  Herbert  all  fall  down  and  worship  and 
then  let  him  get  himself  into  this  state  .  .  .  really,  you 
are  impossible!" 

"It's  only  to-day  and  to-morrow.  Then  he  can  rest  as 
much  as  he  likes.  Ask  him  to  come  south  with  us  in  the 
'Bird  of  Time/" 

"A  day  and  a  half  in  mid-November,  driving  about  and 
jumping  in  and  out  of  a  warm  car,  and  getting  wet  and 
tired  and  having  to  speak,  speak,  speak  .  .  .  !  Oh, 
let  me  go,  Father  Time !  I'm  sick  of  you  all." 


THE  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION          179 

She  dragged  herself  away  from  him  and  hurried  out  of 
the  room.  Sir  William  shook  his  head  in  perplexity. 
Something  had  come  over  Sheila  the  last  few  days  which 
he  frankly  failed  to  understand.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
accuse  him  of  indifference  to  Denys,  but  her  own  attitude 
had  been  freezing.  When  she  condescended  to  cease  ignor- 
ing his  existence,  it  was  for  the  purpose  of  inflicting  a 
stab  which  Denys  seemed  to  bear  with  exemplary  patience. 
For  six  months  Sir  William  had  suspected  something  more 
than  mere  interest  in  Sheila's  attitude  to  the  boy,  but  if  his 
suspicions  were  well  founded  she  had  curious  methods  of 
engaging  his  affection.  They  consisted  in  going  out  of  her 
way  to  be  pleasant  to  Maurice,  with  intervals  of  extreme 
unkindness  to  Denys.  And  it  was  not  with  Denys  that  the 
fault  lay:  he  did  all  in  his  power  to  win  her  back  to  the 
old  friendly  relationship,  and  his  comparative  unconscious- 
ness of  the  way  Daphne  was  toiling  on  his  behalf  put  any 
idea  of  jealousy  out  of  the  question.  Sir  William  sighed 
and  resigned  himself  to  his  usual  fate,  which  was  to  linger 
on  in  patient  ignorance  until  such  time  as  Sheila  thought  fit 
to  enlighten  him. 

Upstairs  in  her  room,  standing  at  the  window  with 
flushed  face  and  bitten  lip,  Sheila  could  have  told  why  the 
world  had  suddenly  grown  hateful  to  her.  Half  her  plans 
had  miscarried,  the  other  half  were  prospering  with  a 
success  that  was  harder  to  bear  than  any  failure.  Daphne 
was  in  a  state  of  infatuation,  hypnotised  by  Denys'  per- 
sonality: any  idea  that  she  would  exert  a  restraining  in- 
fluence on  him  was  laughable.  And  Denys  was  living  out 
his  dream  and  materialising  his  vision  in  a  way  that  was 
hardly  credible.  Sheila  had  avoided  his  meetings,  but  the 
reports  of  them  reacched  her  with  the  added  testimony 
of  those  who  had  sat  silent  under  the  spell.  His  audience 
lay  at  his  mercy,  he  could  do  what  he  liked  with  them. 
It  was  an  empire  won  not  over  an  emotional,  ignorant, 


i8o  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

gullible  mob,  but  over  hardened  debaters  like  her  uncle  and 
jaded  cynics  like  her  grandfather. 

Her  victories  brought  no  sweetness.  Maurice  had  been 
wooed  away  unresistingly,  contemptibly,  but  at  the  price  of 
her  own  self-respect,  and  the  problem  which  had  faced 
Daphne  in  Devonshire  had  now  solved  itself.  She  turned 
from  the  window  and  paced  fretfully  up  and  down  the 
room,  asking  herself  why  her  success  brought  so  little 
consolation.  The  answer  which  rose  to  her  lips  and  was 
pressed  back  with  an  angry  denial,  was  that  she  was  saving 
Daphne  at  the  price  of  losing  Denys.  And  she  had  sud- 
denly realised  that  it  was  a  price  she  did  not  want  to 
pay. 

Downstairs  in  the  hall  Sir  William  and  Daphne  sat  wait- 
ing for  Denys  to  come  in  with  orders  for  the  afternoon's 
canvass,  and  discussing  the  eternal  question  of  the  rival 
candidates'  prospects  of  victory. 

"Jack  Melbourne  is  a  consummate  master  of  the  'mine  de 
circonstance,' "  said  Sir  William,  rising  up  and  standing 
with  his  back  to  the  fire.  "In  less  than  twelve  months  I've 
seen  him  as  the  barrister,  the  man  of  business,  and 
the  parliamentary  candidate.  Every  outward  detail  was 
perfect:  he  would  have  imposed  on  a  trained  detec- 
tive." 

"Sounds  like  Jacky  Melbourne,"  said  Maurice,  who  had 
just  entered  the  room  and  dropped  into  the  chair  which 
Sir  William  had  vacated. 

"It  is.  I  remember  meeting  him  in  Middle  Temple  Lane 
a  few  months  ago,  hurrying  along  with  a  pair  of  spectacles 
stranded  in  mid-forehead  after  the  fashion  of  one  King's 
Counsel,  and  smoking  a  nine-inch  cheroot  immortalised  by 
another.  He  waved  a  red  silk  handkerchief  in  the  manner 
of  a  third,  took  snuff  as  I  remember  Russell  of  Killowen 
taking  it,  and  stopped  me  in  order  to  show  the  precise 
gesture  which  an  alert  junior  employs  in  plucking  the 


THE  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION          181 

gown  of  his  leader  to  draw  attention  to  an  important  point 
which  has  been  overlooked.  The  whole  thing  was  extraor- 
dinarily impressive:  if  I'd  been  a  solicitor  nothing  would 
have  induced  me  to  retain  him." 

"I  liked  him  as  the  City  Man,"  grunted  Maurice.  "Jacky 
always  wanted  a  fur  coat  and  couldn't  find  the  mug  who'd 
give  him  one,  so  when  his  guv'nor  told  him  he'd  got  to  go 
into  the  City,  Jacky  saw  his  chance.  'Ten  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning,'  says  father.  'Right,'  says  Jacky.  'I  must  get 
some  clothes  first,'  and — my  stars!  he  got  'em  all  right. 
Slipped  along  to  father's  tailor  and  told  'em  to  reach  him 
down  the  best  fur  coat  they'd  got.  Then  he  coveted  a 
diamond  ring  from  somewhere,  turned  the  stone  to  the 
inside  of  his  hand,  and  raided  father's  cigar  cabinet.  I 
saw  him  the  same  afternoon  at  the  club.  It  was  a  pipin' 
hot  May  day,  and  there  was  Jacky  standin'  in  a  fur  coat  and 
a  pot-hat,  with  a  pair  of  glasses  on  the  tip  of  his  nose, 
wavin'  his  hands  about  his  head,  diamond  ring  and  all, 
sayin'  he  was  a  buthineth  man  and  we  muthn't  be  hard  on 
him.  It  didn't  take  father  long  to  see  he'd  missed  his 
train  sendin'  Jacky  to  the  City." 

"How  has  he  got  himself  up  for  the  election?"  asked 
Daphne. 

"I've  hardly  seen  him,"  said  Maurice ;  "has  he  come  your 
way,  Sir  William?" 

"Oh  yes;  he  asked  my  advice  on  the  question  of  dis- 
guise. He  was  wearing  the  fur  coat  and  an  expensive- 
looking  orchid,  but  didn't  know  how  to  deal  with  the 
collar  problem.  It  was  a  choice  between  a  low  Balfourian 
type  and  the  cut-away  Churchill  variety.  He  compromised 
by  selecting  the  Churchill  collar  and  always  gripping  the 
lapels  of  his  coat  when  he  was  speaking.  I  had  to  warn 
him  against  an  eye-glass,  however:  that's  the  exclusive 
privilege  of  a  Tariff  Reformer  and  doesn't  look  well  on 
the  Radical  candidate." 


1 82  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"What  chance  do  you  think  Mr.  Melbourne's  got,  grand- 
dad?" asked  Daphne. 

"Oh,  no  chance  at  all.  His  whole  election  has  been  one 
long  piece  of  elaborate  buffoonery,  very  funny  at  times, 
and  I  expect  he's  enjoyed  every  moment  of  it,  but  the 
electors  like  to  be  treated  more  seriously.  Jack  doesn't  try 
to  hide  his  contempt  for  the,  whole  thing.  In  some  ways 
I'm  glad  not  to  be  his  father." 

"They're  canvassing  very  hard  for  him.  The  big,  red- 
haired  man  that  you  see  everywhere,  he's  called  at  every 
house  in  the  constituency." 

"Wilmot?  Yes,  it's  a  heaven-sent  opportunity  for  him. 
He  used  to  be  managing  directcor  of  the  Anglo-Hibernian 
and  carried  a  good  deal  of  weight.  Why,  I  don't  know. 
I  tried  for  five  years  to  get  rid  of  him,  but  my  colleagues 
didn't  share  my  view.  He's  gone  now,  since  the  last 
general  meeting.  When  Denys  was  on  board  he  had  the 
temerity  to  criticise  Wilmot  and  indulge  in  prophecies  about 
the  position  he  was  getting  the  company  into.  Of  course 
there's  no  harm  in  prophecy,  provided  it  doesn't  come  true. 
Unfortunately  Denys'  did.  There  was  very  nearly  a  scan- 
dal, I  understand,  when  the  shareholders  began  to  ask 
questions.  For  one  thing,  Wilmot  tried  to  make  the 
directors'  report  intelligible,  and  that's  against  the  A.B.C. 
of  shareholders'  meetings.  Denys  warned  him  that  the  fat 
would  be  in  the  fire  the  moment  he  was  betrayed  into 
lucidity.  And  he  was.  All  shareholders  want  is  the 
balance-sheet:  they  hold  it  upside  down  and  read  through 
the  bank  balances,  and  then  vote  for  the  adoption  of  the 
report  without  a  murmur.  Wilmot  tried  to  take  them  into 
his  confidence  and  justify  himself.  Well,  as  Denys  warned 
him,  there  were  a  good  many  things  that  simply  couldn't 
be  justified.  The  crash  came,  Wilmot  had  to  resign,  and 
now  he's  looking  for  everybody's  blood.  It  just  shows  you 
the  danger  of  prophecy." 


THE  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION          183 

"They  say  he's  going  to  heckle  to-night,"  said  Daphne, 
who  had  developed  an  unrivalled  faculty  for  acquiring  early 
news  of  the  enemy's  movements. 

"Leave  him  to  me,"  said  Maurice  with  gusto.  "If  there's 
any  heavin'  out  to  be  done,  I'm  the  man.  These  elections 
are  too  tame  for  my  likin';  there's  no  scrappin'  to  speak 
of.  Hullo!  here's  the  candidate  himself,"  he  added,  as 
Denys  and  Lord  Parkstone  came  into  the  room.  "What's 
the  startin'-price,  Denny?" 

"Evens,  I  should  think.  I'm  ready  to  start  if  everyone 
else  is.  Can  we  have  the  cars  at  a  quarter  to  eight, 
Maurice  ?" 

"I'll  go  and  order  'em  now.  Evens  be  blowed  all  the 
same,  Denny,  it's  goin'  to  be  a  walk-over." 

"It's  going  to  be  a  very  near  thing,"  said  Lord  Parkstone, 
taking  an  unoccupied  chair  beside  his  father-in-law. 
"Maurice  is  wrong,  we  shall  have  to  fight  our  hardest  to 
get  Denys  in.  Melbourne's  speeches  seem  to  please  his 
audience,  somehow:  there's  no  'damned  nonsense'  about 
politics  in  them ;  just  a  few  good  stories  to  put  his  house  in 
a  good  temper  with  him,  and  then  he  proceeds  to  talk 
about  himself  till  it's  time  to  go  on  to  another  meet- 
ing." 

"I've  never  heard  him  talk  of  anything  else,"  said  Sir 
William.  "Hallo,  Sheila.  Are  you  coming  canvassing?" 
he  asked,  as  she  came  down  the  stairs. 

"No,  I'm  saving  myself  up  for  to-night.  I  suppose  I 
must  attend  one  meeting,  just  as  a  matter  of  form,"  she 
said  pointedly,  not  deigning  to  look  at  Denys. 

"It'll  be  a  great  meeting,"  said  Sir  William  as  Maurice 
helped  him  into  his  coat.  "We're  not  inside  the  citadel  yet ; 
it'll  need  a  big  speech  to  wind  up  with." 

Denys  walked  over  to  the  fireplace  to  arrange  his  scarf 
in  the  mirror. 

"That   ought   to  be   good   news    for   you,    Sheila,"   he 


1 84  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

remarked  in  an  undertone.     "Were  not  inside  the  citadel 
yet." 

"No,  and  you  won't  be  a  penny  the  better  off  when  you 
are  there,"  she  said,  opposing  him  for  opposition's  sake. 

"That  we  shall  see,  my  friend.  I  only  hope  there  won't 
be  much  more  fighting."  He  sighed  wearily,  and  the  sigh 
turned  into  a  cough. 

Sheila's  voice  softened  and  dropped.  "Denys,  don't  go, 
I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Did  you  see  the  doctor  this 
morning?  Well,  what  did  he  say ?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  talked  about  the  weather." 

"Denys,  are  you  going  to  tell  me  what  he  said  or  shall 
I  have  to  ask  him  ?" 

"Don't  ask  him  or  he  might  tell  you,  and  it  would  be 
unprofessional.  Like  me,  he  hoped  there  would  not  be 
much  more  fighting." 

"And  what  does  that  mean?" 

"It  means  that  if  I'm  beaten,  I  shall  be  beaten  by  my  own 
rotten  organs  and  not  by  clever  little  Sheila's  schemings. 
And  it  means  that  I  want  to  go  to  bed  instead  of  having 
to  make  this  big  speech  your  grandfather  talks  about.  It 
means  good  news  all  round  for  you,  my  friend,"  he  added 
with  the  bitterness  of  extreme  fatigue. 

Sheila  got  up  and  began  to  walk  toward  the  library. 
Then  she  turned  and  said  almost  in  a  whisper:  "I've  had 
some  pretty  horrid  things  said  to  me  in  my  time,  Denys, 
usually  by  you,  too.  But  I  never  thought  you  could  be  such 
a  brute  as  to  say  that  to  me." 

Denys  watched  her  out  of  the  room ;  then,  fetching  him- 
self a  cigarette  from  the  table  beside  the  fireplace,  he  took 
his  place  in  the  first  car.  As  the  rings  of  blue  smoke 
expanded  and  dissolved  above  his  head  he  tried  to  fathom 
why  a  remark  of  innocent  intention  should  have  sent  Sheila 


THE  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION          185, 

from  the  room  with  tears  in  her  eyes  and  a  sob  in  her  voice. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  organised  canvassing :  the  morrow 
would  be  taken  up  with  eleventh  hour  appeals  to  sluggards 
and  waverers,  then  would  come  the  poll.  Both  sides  were 
working  their  hardest,  Denys'  supporters  infected  with  his 
own  enthusiasm  and  purpose,  Melbourne's  endeavouring  to 
communicate  something  of  their  own  ardour  to  their  can- 
didate. At  Riversley  Ford  the  three  cars  separated  cen- 
trifugally/  Lord  Parkstone  and  an  agent  in  one,  Maurice 
and  another  zealous  worker  in  a  second,  Daphne  and  her 
grandfather  in  a  third.  Denys  had  a  door-to-door  canvass 
to  make  in  Church  Road  and  was  to  be  picked  up  at  the 
Victoria  Memorial  Hall  in  two  hours'  time,  when  Daphne 
had  scoured  the  out-lying,  north-west  part  of  the  con- 
stituency. 

He  knocked  at  the  first  door  with  the  reluctance  of  one 
who  does  not  relish  contact  with  reality.  The  public 
meetings  were  part  of  his  dream,  he  had  pictured  the  scene 
a  thousand  times:  the  gaslit  hall  crowded  with  white, 
indistinguishable  faces,  the  first  impatient  shuffling  and 
whispering,  the  growing  silence,  the  spreading  spell,  the 
rising  passion  and  plastic,  melting  emotion.  He  had  proved 
his  power  till  the  knowledge  made  him  reckless  and  con- 
temptuous; he  would  pause  to  make  them  feel  the  agony 
of  suspense,  or  single  out  one  acolyte  to  be  the  bearer  of 
his  message:  a  man  so  chosen  would  sit  fascinated  with 
parted  lips  and  fixed,  unblinking  eyes  till  he  had  ended. 
It  was  for  this  that  he  had  waited  and  in  this  way  that  his 
vision  would  be  fulfilled. 

As  the  tide  of  human  faces  receded  and  disappeared,  his 
own  inspiration  and  power  left  him.  Removed  from  the 
atmosphere  of  expectancy,  and  without  the  stimulus  of 
either  sympathy  or  opposition,  his  imagination  went  flat  and 
his  language  grew  commonplace.  The  vision  grew  blurred 
when  he  passed  from  a  windy,  rain-swept  street  into  a  musty 


1 86  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

parlour  oppressive  with  hideous  over-ornamentation.  Weeks 
of  canvassing  left  on  his  mind  the  impression  of  countless 
bare-armed  women,  deferential,  irrelevant,  and  interminable, 
uninterested  in  politics  but  anxious  to  oblige;  multitudin- 
ous, inquisitive  children,  mysteriously  appearing  and 
stealthily  snatched  from  view ;  husky,  confidential  husbands, 
not  so  anxious  to  oblige  but  conscious  of  their  power, 
aggressive  in  their  dogmatism,  and  insufferably  loquacious. 
Whales  warring  with  elephants  discovered  a  common 
battleground  more  quickly  than  the  generalisations,  first 
principles,  and  particular  instances  of  candidate  and 
elector. 

Denys  sighed  with  relief  when  the  end  of  Church  Road 
was  reached  and  his  last  canvass  was  completed.  The 
irksomeness  of  the  work  was  hardly  more  irritating  than 
its  futility.  Promises  of  support  had  flowed  in  upon  him, 
the  note  book  was  heavily  marked  with  the  red  cross  that 
indicated  a  vote  gained;  but  for  the  value  of  the  promises 
he  could  not  speak.  Working  the  same  road  and  six  houses 
ahead  of  him,  he  had  espied  the  burly  frame  and  fiery 
head  of  Wilmot.  Probably  Wilmot's  list  recorded  the  same 
number  of  promises  from  the  self-same  voters.  With  a 
glance  at  his  watch  he  slackened  his  pace  and  strolled  in 
the  direction  of  the  Memorial  Hall :  the  two  hours  were  up, 
but  Daphne's  car  had  not  yet  appeared,  and  the  steps  of 
the  Memorial  Hall  were  occupied  by  Wilmot  and  a  girl  in 
a  long  fur  coat.  He  could  not  see  her  face  and  was  dawd- 
ling with  a  view  to  avoiding  her  companion  when  he  heard 
his  name  called  and  discovered  that  Wilmot's  inclined  head 
and  affable  voice  were  traceable  to  the  circumstance  that 
Sheila  was  talking  to  him. 

"When's  the  car  coming?"  she  called  out.  From  her 
tone  he  judged  that  their  parting  earlier  in  the  afternoon 
was  not  yet  forgotten.  "I've  had  as  much  of  these  slushy 
roads  as  I  want." 


THE  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION          187 

"It  ought  to  be  here  now,"  he  said,  coming  up  to  them. 
"Ah,  Wilmot,  how  are  you?" 

"I'm  all  right,"  said  Wilmot  with  easy  insolence,  keeping 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  to  discourage  the  possibility  of 
further  advances. 

"Good  canvass  ?"  asked  Sheila  with  an  ill-disguised  taunt 
in  her  voice. 

"A  fair  number  of  promises,"  said  Denys,  pretending  to 
consult  his  list. 

"Promises  don't  cost  much,"  said  Wilmot.  "God  knows 
you  deserve  them,  after  the  promises  you've  made  in  your 
speeches.  And  if  the  promises  you've  picked  up  to-day  pan 
out  at  the  same  figure  as  the  promises  you've  been  throwing 
about  the  last  few  weeks,  my  candidate's  got  an  easy 
job." 

"Well,  well!"  Denys  saw  no  profit  in  continuing  to  talk 
with  Wilmot  in  his  present  mood.  "Coming  to  the  meeting 
tonight,  Sheila?" 

"Not  unless  I'm  dragged,"  she  answered  ungraciously. 

"Better  come,  Miss  Fading,"  said  Wilmot  with  a  malevo- 
lent grin.  "We're  all  going  to  be  there;  it'll  be  a  bright 
meeting." 

"I've  had  all  the  politics  and  speech-making  I  want  up 
at  the  house." 

"Ah,  but  it's  all  on  one  side  there;  what  you  want  is  a 
question  here  and  there,  a  little  opposition.  It  brings  your 
fine  speakers  down  to  earth,  stimulates  'em.  Your  can- 
didate'll  be  worth  hearing  to-night,"  he  added  with  sinister 
gusto. 

"Please  don't  call  him  my  candidate.  Hullo,  here's  the 
car !  No,  it  isn't,  it's  Mr.  Melbourne." 

The  rival  candidate  whirled  erratically  down  the  street 
and  pulled  up  more  by  luck  than  judgment  opposite  the  hall. 

"Hallo,  Denys,"  he  cried  out,  "I've  been  pruning  your 
supporters.  We  ran  over  Isaacstein  on  the  way  down." 


1 88  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  killed  anyone!"  exclaimed 
Sheila,  roused  out  of  herself  by  his  flippant  tone. 

"I'm  afraid  he  recovered,"  said  Melbourne  with  detach- 
ment, "he  was  the  sort  of  man  who  would." 

"I  don't  think  I  even  know  him  by  sight,"  said  Denys. 

"You  should  always  know  your  electors  by  sight," 
explained  Melbourne,  "or  else  you  may  run  over  the  wrong 
man.  My  father  pointed  out  Isaacstein  to  me  last  week 
at  the  Cosmopolitan  Club.  Any  of  your  lot  own  this  car?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Denys.  "Where  did  you 
get  it?" 

"Down  by  the  schools;  there  were  a  lot  of  them  and 
this  seemed  an  improvement  on  our  father's  Jubilee  model. 
Besides,  I'm  not  allowed  to  drive  that.  If  you  see  anyone 
looking  for  a  car,  tell  him  to  go  on  looking." 

"How's  the  election  going  ?"  called  out  Sheila  as  he  hauled 
Wilmot  on  board  and  prepared  to  drive  away. 

"Election?  Election?  Oh,  Lord,  yes,  careless  of  me." 
Relinquishing  the  wheel  he  stood  up,  removed  his  hat, 
and  thrust  one  hand  into  the  breast  of  his  coat.  "My 
country!  in  what  state  do  I  find  thee,  the  Angel  of  Death 
is  without,  if  you  are  going  to  give  a  preference  to  the 
colonies  you  must  put  a  tax  on  food,  Protection  is  not  only 
dead  but,  no,  not  before  ladies,  I  bring  peace  with  honour, 
the  resources  of  civilisation  are  not  exhausted,  Ulster  will 
fight  and  Ulster  will  be  right,  every  private  carries  a 
marshal's  baton  in  his  haversack,  1'etat  c'est  moi,  le  style  et 
I'homme  c'est  la  meme  chose,  Wein,  Weib  und  Gesang, 
Eile  mit  Weile,  lasciate  ogni  speranza,  voi  ch'  entrate,  Scots 
wha  hae,  delenda  est  Carthago.  I'm  having  the  time  of  my 
life.  Are  you  there,  Wilmot?  you're  not  to  fall  out  till 
you've  voted.  Anyone  wishing  to  propose  a  vote  of  con- 
fidence in  the  candidate  may  do  so.  Good-bye,  good-bye! 
'Once  more  into  the  breach,  Wilmot,  once  more/  Don't 
forget  Isaacstein,  Denys;  you'll  find  him  a  mile  or  two 


THE  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION          189 

back  on  the  Elham  road,  'a  bleeding  piece  of  earth  and 
none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence.' " 

"I  wonder  if  he  talks  to  his  meetings  like  that,"  said 
Sheila,  watching  the  car  disappear  down  the  road  with  the 
action  of  a  convulsed  crab. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised;  you'd  better  go  and  hear  him 
to-night." 

"I  think  I  shall.     Oh,  good !  here's  the  car  at  last." 

There  was  no  sign  of  Daphne,  and  Sir  William  from  the 
front  seat  explained  that  her  labours  were  not  yet  over  and 
that  she  was  being  brought  back  by  her  father.  "Climb 
inside,  both  of  you,"  he  said,  "and  let's  be  getting  home. 
You  must  have  a  lie  down  before  dinner,  Denys,  or  you 
won't  be  fit  to  speak  tonight." 

"Tired?"  asked  Sheila  with  a  wintry  advance  towards 
compassion  as  Denys  lay  back  wearily  in  his  corner. 

"Just  a  bit."  Then  after  a  pause  he  asked  humbly: 
"Forgiven?" 

"Is  there  anything  to  forgive?" 

"You  know  best.    Why  can't  we  be  friends,  Sheila?" 

"Because — that's  just  one  thing  we  can't  be,"  she  replied 
with  a  significance  which  was  plain  enough  to  herself.  Then 
a  gust  of  penitence  swept  over  her  for  the  pin-prick  cam- 
paign of  the  last  fortnight.  "I  wonder  you  think  I'm 
worth  it." 

"Do  you?"  he  asked  softly. 

On  their  arrival  home,  Denys  was  dismissed  to  his  room, 
and  Sir  William  waited  with  Sheila  in  the  hall  to  receive 
the  returned  stragglers  and  ascertain  the  success  of  their 
afternoon's  labours.  The  general  opinion  bore  out  Lord 
Parkstone's  statement  that  the  chances  were  uncomfortably 
level. 

"Well,  we've  done  our  best,  no  one  can  do  more,"  said 
Sir  William.  "And  we  shall  all  be  late  for  dinner  if  we 
don't  go  and  dress." 


190  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Two  hours  later  Denys  and  his  supporters  entered  the 
hall  where  their  meeting  was  being  held.  The  gas-lit,  white- 
washed room  served  the  purpose  of  a  County  School  by  day 
and  retained  by  night  something  of  the  County  scholars' 
bouquet.  Texts,  maps,  and  blackboards  loomed  incon- 
gruously over  the  heads  of  the  audience ;  a  subtle  blend  of 
ink  and  damp  corduroy  assailed  the  nostrils  of  those  herded 
in  the  back  rows ;  ink  partially  drowned  in  Coeur  de  Jeanette 
floated  up  to  the  horse-shoe  platform  from  the  seats  of 
quality.  As  they  walked  up  the  central  gangway  Daphne 
noticed  the  conspicuous  figure  of  Wilmot  reinforcing  a 
familiar  group  of  critics  and  questioners  half-way  up  the 
hall.  Then  the  chairman  of  the  local  Conservative  Asso- 
ciation opened  the  proceedings  with  a  colourless,  platitud- 
inous speech  of  ten  minutes'  duration:  at  its  conclusion 
Lord  Parkstone  from  the  chair  called  upon  Denys  to  address 
the  meeting.  An  outburst  of  cheering  greeted  him  as  he 
arose  and  bowed  to  the  audience.  Turning  half  round  he 
bowed  to  the  chairman,  singled  out  Sheila  for  a  bow  on 
her  own  account,  and  waited  for  the  stamping  and  clapping 
to  abate.  Sheila  watched  him  with  interest :  of  the  hundreds 
gathered  in  the  hall  probably  she  alone  had  never  heard  him 
make  a  speech.  The  platform  curved  forward  on  the  wings 
like  a  half  moon.  She  had  seated  herself  as  far  as  pos- 
sible from  the  chair,  and  at  right  angles  to  the  speaker 
and  audience  prepared  to  watch  the  effect  of  the  one  on 
the  other. 

Denys  opened  slowly,  congratulating  his  audience  that 
they  were  hearing  him  for  the  last  time:  fourteen  days' 
unmitigated  politics  were  more  than  enough  in  a  country 
where — it  was  said — the  House  of  Commons  was  fallen  into 
disrepute,  the  questions  at  issue  had  lost  their  grandeur, 
and  passion  and  an  over-legislated  country  yearned  for 
respite  and  repose.  The  reforming  zeal  of  the  last  few 
years  had  left  no  corner  unexplored :  surely  it  was  a  moment 


THE  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION          191 

when  they  could  sit  complacent  and  compliment  themselves 
on  achieving  tolerable  perfection  in  an  imperfect  world. 
If  evils  still  existed,  if  hunger  pinched  or  injustice  rankled, 
Parliament  would  set  it  right,  and  the  electors  who  deter- 
mined the  form  of  Parliament  would  see  that  their  repre- 
sentatives were  empowered  to  make  the  social  conscience 
easy.  But  first  they  had  a  right  to  insist  that  a  case  was 
made  out  for  disturbing  their  wonted  complacency. 

His  voice  fell  a  tone,  and  Sheila  looked  up  to  watch  the 
method  of  indictment.  Pitilessly  and  dispassionately  he 
carried  them  over  the  ground  traversed  in  the  early 
chapters  of  "The  Trustees,"  his  own  restraint  and  aloof- 
ness making  the  accusation  doubly  damning.  The  audience 
grew  uncomfortable,  their  placidity  was  shaken — first  by 
conscience,  then  by  fear.  "Manufacturing  civilisation  is 
like  manufacturing  anything  else:  there  is  a  bill  to  pay, 
waste  products  to  be  scrapped,  profits,  perhaps  to  be  drawn. 
The  difference  is  that  men  and  women  are  the  waste 
products,  the  bill  is  paid  in  their  sweat  and  blood,  not  a 
large  share  of  the  profits  goes  to  the  workers;  some  day 
they  will  wonder  whether  the  finished  article  was  worth 
the  labour."  For  five  minutes  he  played  with  revolution, 
hinting,  intimidating,  expounding  with  ambiguous  irony  its 
ease  and  attractiveness.  Sheila  watched  the  faces  of  those 
who  sat  in  the  front  rows  and  then  let  her  eyes  wander  to 
the  back  benches. 

Suddenly  the  voice  began  to  gather  speed.  Assuming  the 
diseased  limbs  and  gangrened  wounds  of  society,  admitting 
or  dismissing  the  idea  of  resentment  and  the  possibility  of 
revenge,  as  human,  tender  souls  dowered  by  God  with  love 
of  the  beautiful,  would  they  not  rouse  themselves  to  purge 
and  adorn  the  body  of  which  each  one  of  them  formed  a 
part?  Visionaries,  idealists,  impracticable  dreamers,  they 
would  be  called  all  those  names  by  the  "plain  men,"  the 
materialists,  the  men  of  the  world.  Yet  .  .  .  history  was 


i92  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

richer  for  its  visionaries  .  .  .  Sheila  sat  forward  with  eyes 
fixed  on  the  white,  mobile  face :  he  was  speaking  as  she  had 
made  him  speak  when  they  sat  alone  under  the  early  sum- 
mer night  and  her  presence  was  gradually  forgotten.  The 
spell  which  he  cast  over  her  was  bewitching  an  audience  of 
three  hundred  souls.  Dreamily,  yet  with  unfaltering  com- 
mand of  glance  and  gesture,  consciously  varying  the  melody 
of  an  incomparable  voice,  he  was  filching  their  wills  and 
numbing  their  power  of  resistance.  Splashed  with  sunshine 
and  fragrant  with  flowers,  the  world  of  his  imagination  was 
made  real  to  them.  With  kindling  passion  the  words  swept 
on  to  the  climax:  then  a  pause;  the  voice  was  silent,  the 
hands  still,  the  blazing  eyes  half-closed.  Painfully — Sheila 
knew  how  painfully — his  hearers  dropped  into  reality. 

"Dreamers,  yes."  The  voice  had  fallen  to  a  conversa- 
tional tone.  "And  a  man  is  never  forgotten  for  seeing 
visions.  You  and  I  may  sit  hoping  and  praying  for  a 
Golden  Age,  but  we  must  never  visualise  it  as  I  have  just 
done.  We  must  never  scheme  for  its  accomplishment;  we 
must  remember  we're  practical,  hard-headed  men  of  the 
world,  a  little  higher  than  hell  and  a  long  way  lower  than 
heaven.  We  are  children  of  our  generation.  And  yet  .  .  . 
and  yet  .  .  .  wherein  are  the  dreams  impracticable?  You 
have  power,  had  you  will  .  .  .  if  it  were  really  worth  it! 
With  a  little  faith,  nothing  could  withstand  you."  He 
paused  and  picked  up  a  flower  from  the  table  before  him. 
"Some  day — when  it  is  too  late — you  will  appreciate  your 
power.  You  who  manufacture  this  civilisation  and  you 
who  control  its  making,  you  have  never  trusted  each  other. 
I  had  rather  offer  you  an  ideal  than  a  threat — the  ideal  of 
working  together  for  an  end  which  you  both  know  to  be 
just  and  necessary.  If  you  will  not  seek  virtue  for  its  own 
sake  .  .  ."he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  dropped  the 
flower — "you  will  learn  how  weak  is  your  power  of  dis- 
united defence  against  attack  compared  with  your  united 


THE  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION          193 

strength  in  a  common  onslaught  on  the  admitted  common 
evils  of  society.  Civilisation  presses  hardest  on  the  inse- 
cure, lightest  on  those  who  have  most  to  lose  by  social  dis- 
ruption. Unless  employers  and  employed  join  hands,  the 
employed  will  take  reform  into  their  own  control,  and  of 
that  no  man  can  see  the  end.  It  is  easier  and  safer  to  be 
an  idealist.  Labour  knows  the  difficulty  of  consolidation 
and  hopes  for  justice  without  recourse  to  extremes.  If 
this  consolidation  were  ever  proved  necessary,  Labour 
would  be  irresistible :  if  Labour  is  forced  to  organise  itself, 
its  terms  will  rise.  You  know  the  relative  voting  strength : 
majorities  in  the  constituencies,  majorities  in  the  House — 
and  short  of  turning  a  man  into  a  woman  or  a  woman  into 
a  man  there  is  nothing  the  House  of  Commons  cannot  do, 
nothing  it  cannot  seize,  expropriate,  tax  out  of  existence 
at  twenty  shillings  in  the  pound.  They  say  class-feeling 
and  party-bitterness  are  rising.  I  ask  for  power  and  au- 
thority to  work  for  a  settlement  before  the  coming  cleavage 
and  ultimate  appeal  to  numbers." 

Once  more  he  paused  and  glanced  at  Sheila.  She  re- 
turned his  gaze  and  then  looked  away  down  the  hall.  Speak- 
ing or  standing  silent  he  held  the  audience  cowed,  tense, 
expectant.  Wilmot  and  his  fellow  critics  dared  make  no 
interruption.  She  grew  suddenly  frightened  and  filled  with 
a  desire  to  cry  out  and  warn  them  against  their  fate:  the 
warning,  could  she  have  uttered  it,  would  have  been 
wasted :  they  were  tacitly  asking  leave  to  grace  his  triumph. 
Their  votes  and  influence  were  his ;  she  alone  knew  how  he 
would  use  them,  and  the  force  that  was  to  have  restrained 
him  lay  more  deeply  under  his  spell  than  the  rest.  She 
turned  from  the  hall  to  the  platform.  Daphne  was  sitting 
three-quarter  face  to  her,  wrapped  in  an  ermine  cloak,  her 
soft  brown  hair  held  down  with  the  curved  bar  of  tortoise- 
shell,  her  beautiful  pale  face  turned  eagerly  towards  Denys, 
her  grave  brown  eyes  shining  with  approval  and  admiration. 


194  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Sir  William  lay  back  in  an  attitude  of  critical  attention, 
legs  crossed,  finger-tips  pressed  together,  watching  the 
speaker;  Lord  Parkstone  gazed  with  unseeing  eyes  over 
the  heads  of  the  audience  to  the  back  of  the  hall;  Maurice 
sat  open-mouthed,  waiting  for  the  next  words. 

Then  with  throbbing  voice  Denys  approached  the  pero- 
ration. In  six  short,  cruel  sentences  he  reproached  them  for 
their  purple,  fine  linen,  and  sumptuous  daily  fare:  in  six 
more,  shimmering,  exotic,  and  luxuriant,  the  vision  was 
recalled  and  fixed  in  their  memory:  then  he  appealed  for 
power  to  realise  his  vision.  No  longer  sparing  his  strength 
or  husbanding  his  voice,  he  urged  and  commanded  with  a 
force  that  could  not  be  resisted.  His  hearers  were  carried 
out  of  themselves  by  the  rushing  torrent  of  exhorta- 
tion; then  the  speech  ended  and  the  wild  music  was 
hushed. 

For  a  minute  there  was  silence,  then  the  applause  broke 
out.  Sitting,  standing,  jumping  on  chairs,  they  shouted 
and  laughed,  waved  their  arms  and  clapped  their  hands. 
The  uproar  was  deafening,  and  when  after  three  minutes 
it  showed  signs  of  dying  down,  Maurice  gave  it  fresh  life 
with  an  ear-splitting  view-halloo.  After  two  unsuccessful 
attempts  the  chairman  contrived  to  ask  if  the  audience 
wished  to  put  any  questions  to  the  candidate.  One  or  two 
speakers  with  logs  of  their  own  to  roll  tried  to  extort  a 
promise  to  assist  in  the  rolling;  one  of  Wilmot's  satellites 
embarked  on  a  damaging  examination  relative  to  the  cost  of 
the  proposed  reforms,  and  then  artistically  left  the  hall 
without  pressing  his  advantage  unduly;  a  shrill-voiced 
woman,  tremulous  with  anticipated  ill-usage,  enquired  what 
he  proposed  to  do  for  the  women,  and  was  deposited  in  the 
snow  with  the  oil-stove,  to  which  she  had  attached  herself, 
long  before  Denys  could  articulate  a  reply  or  Maurice 
hurl  himself  into  the  affray. 

Then  Wilmot  arose  with  a  handful  of  notes,  placed  one 


THE  RIVERSLEY  ELECTION          195 

foot  on  the  chair  which  his  satellite  had  vacated,  and 
settled  doTm  to  the  congenial  occupation  of  being  as  rude 
and  disorderly  as  a  nervous  chairman  would  allow. 


CHAPTER  X 

SHEILA   LOSES   THE    FIRST    GAME 

"I  must  not  think  of  thee ;  and,  tired  yet  strong, 
I  shun  the  love  that  lurks  i-n  all  delight — 
The  love  of  thee — and  in  the  blue  heaven's  height, 
And  in  the  dearest  passage  of  a  song. 

Oh,  just  beyond  the  fairest  thoughts  that  throng 

This  breast,  the  thought  of  thee  waits  hidden,  yet  bright ; 
But  it  must  never,  never  come  in  sight; 

I  must  stop  short  of  thee  the  whole  day  long. 

But  when  sleep  comes  to  close  each  difficult  day, 
When  night  gives  pause  to  the  long  watch  I  keep, 

And  all  my  bonds  I  needs  must  loose  apart, 
Must  doff  my  will  as  raiment  laid  away, — 

With  the  first  dream  that  comes  with  the  first  sleep 
I  run,  I  run,  I  am  gather'd  to  thy  heart." 

ALICE  MEYNELL:  "RENOUNCEMENT." 

"WE'VE  all  been  listening  to  a  very  fine  speech,"  he  began 
with  the  unction  of  one  who  has  an  unpleasant  duty  to  face 
and  relishes  its  performance.  "I  expect  we  all  feel  rather 
ashamed  of  ourselves  for  going  on  living — 'a  long  way 
lower  than  heaven,'  yes,  indeed.  'A  little  higher  than  hell,' 
that's  something!" 

Consulting  his  notes,  he  treated  the  audience  to  a  recital 
of  Deny's  more  exotic  flowers  of  speech,  knowing  well  the 
element  of  bathos  which  resides  in  all  luxuriant  imagery, 
and  the  intonation  of  voice  and  receptivenesss  of  hearer 
which  are  needed  to  raise  it  to  the  sublime.  Such  irrelevant 
baiting  roused  no  laughter  among  those  who  remembered 
their  own  sensations  when  the  words  were  originally 
spoken.  Wilmot  quickly  changed  his  tactics. 

196 


SHEILA  LOSES  THE  FIRST  GAME 

"I  daresay  Mr.  Playfair's  surprised  to  see  me  here  to- 
night because — to  be  quite  frank — I've  beeen  working 
against  him  since  the  election  started.  You  see,  I'm  a  new- 
comer to  this  neighbourhood  and — well,  I  try  to  be  broad- 
minded  in  politics.  I  intended  to  vote  for  Mr.  Melbourne 
because  I've  known  him  since  he  was  a  boy  and  bis  father 
for  some  years  before  that.  However — I'm  not  bigoted. 
I'd  heard  so  much  of  Mr.  Playfair's  speaking  that  I  said 
I  must  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  hearing  him.  So  here 
we  are." 

Lord  Parkstone  half  rose  from  the  chair. 

"Our  time  is  limited,  sir.  If  you  have  any  questions  to 
ask,  will  you  please  put  them?" 

Wilmot  beamed  pleasantly  at  the  chairman. 

"I'm  just  coming  to  them." 

His  notes  had  become  disordered  and  he  set  himself  with 
great  deliberation  to  rearrange  them.  More  than  one  chair 
creaked  impatiently  and  Lord  Parkstone  engaged  in  a 
whispered  consultation  with  Sir  William.  Denys  was  lying 
back  in  an  attitude  of  collapse,  and  Sheila  noted  the  change 
with  interest.  As  he  was  speaking  she  was  irresistibly  re- 
minded of  that  portrait  of  his  grandfather  which  had  hung 
in  the  library  at  Buckingahm  Gate;  when  the  speech  was 
ended,  the  nervous,  fervid  intensity  of  expression  had  de- 
parted, the  dark  eyes  lost  their  lustre,  and  he  sat  with 
white,  drawn  face  and  trembling  hands,  hardly  heeding  the 
shower  of  congratulations  which  fell  from  his  supporters 
on  the  platform.  A  corresponding  change  took  place  in 
her  own  feelings:  his  warfare  and  her  counter-warfare 
were  forgotten,  the  plans  she  had  made  for  Daphne  were 
driven  from  her  mind,  and  she  only  saw  a  frail  figure  kept 
animate  by  indomitable  courage,  and  a  life  which  had 
never  known  the  joy  and  sunshine  of  her  own  existence. 
She  wanted  to  cross  to  his  chair,  kneel  down  and  take 
his  hand  in  her  own,  to  ask  him  to  entrust  himself  to  her 


198  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

and  suffer  her  to  share  with  him  her  own  exuberant  store 
of  happiness.  Then  the  bitter  thought  of  the  afternoon 
returned  to  her  mind  and  she  saw  that  by  her  own  contriv- 
ing it  was  ordained  that  she  should  have  no  part  in  his 
life,  and  happiness,  if  it  came,  was  to  come  from  Daphne. 

At  last  Wilmot's  notes  were  reduced  to  order. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  vote  in  this  election,  and  there  are 
a  lot  of  people  in  the  same  boat  with  me.  We've  always 
voted  Radical  before."  ("Shame!"  from  a  pig-tailed  up- 
holder of  the  established  order  by  the  door.)  "Shame  or 
no  shame,  we  felt  we  knew  where  we  were ;  but  the  speech 
Mr.  Playfair  has  just  made  carries  us  miles  beyond  anything 
we've  ever  dared  advocate  in  our  wildest  and  most  revolu- 
tionary days." 

"What  on  earth's  he  driving  at?"  whispered  Lord  Park- 
stone  to  Denys.  "Ought  I  to  stop  him?" 

"No,  let  him  have  his  say ;  he's  out  for  mischief  and  we'd 
better  fight  him  in  the  light." 

"Well,  sir,  ought  I  to  vote  for  Mr.  Playfair  and  the  new 
Radicalism,  or  Mr.  Melbourne  and  the  Radicalism  I  know  ?" 

"Vote  for  Playfair!"  came  in  a  roar  from  the  back 
benches. 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  .  .  .  who  is  he?  How  do  I  know  I 
can  trust  him  ?  On  the  one  hand  I  see  Mr.  Melbourne :  as 
I  told  you,  I've  know  him  since  he  was  a  small  boy;  I 
remember  when  his  father  was  Radical  member  for  the 
division  and  some  of  you  will  remember  when  his  grand- 
father was  Radical  candidate.  There's  no  doubt  about  his 
bona  fides.  Can  we  say  the  same  of  Mr.  Playfair?" 

Lord  Parkstone  rose  and  interrupted  the  speaker.  "It 
is  not  in  order  for  you  to  make  a  speech,  sir ;  you  can  ask 
any  reasonable  questions  you  like,  but  otherwise  I  must  ask 
you  to  sit  down." 

"I  am  asking  a  question,  my  lord,  a  very  important  ques- 
tion if  I'm  to  vote  for  Mr.  Playfair.  I  want  to  be  sure  of 


SHEILA  LOSES  THE  FIRST  GAME    199 

your  candidate's  bona  fides.  I  don't  want  him  to  play  the 
confidence  trick  on  me." 

He  paused  invitingly. 

"What  evidence  of  bona  fides  do  you  want,  sir?"  asked 
Denys. 

"What  evidence  of  bona  fides  can  you  give,  sir?"  The 
question  was  hurled  back  with  extreme  truculence,  and 
Wilmot,  feeling  that  he  had  won  the  interest  and  attention 
of  the  house,  quickened  his  pace  and  addressed  himself  di- 
rectly to  the  candidate. 

"Your  speech  to-night  was  an  echo,  word  for  word,  and 
sentiment  for  sentiment,  of  a  book  called  'The  Trustees  of 
Posterity,'  one  of  the  most  revolutionary  books  ever  issued 
in  this  country.  It  bore  Lord  Parkstone's  name  and  he 
acknowledged  the  help  he'd  had  from  you.  That  was  as  it 
should  be.  From  your  speech  to-night  I  should  imagine 
every  word  except  the  signature  came  from  your  pen.  I 
want  to  know  what  a  Conservative  ex-minister  is  doing  with 
a  book  like  that?  You'd  have  called  it  robbery,  spoliation, 
and  what  not,  if  I'd  written  it.  You  must  satisfy  me  that 
you're  playing  straight  if  you  want  my  vote." 

Lord  .Parkstone  fidgeted  nervously  in  his  chair  and 
Denys  had  again  to  warn  him  not  to  give  Wilmot  an  oppor- 
tunity of  saying  he  had  been  gagged. 

"Mr.  Play  fair  asks  for  power.  That  was  the  keynote 
of  his  speech — power,  power,  power.  What's  he  going  to 
do  with  it?  What's  this  new  Radical-Conservative  party 
going  to  do  with  it?  Who  are  they?  If  Mr.  Melbourne 
had  written  the  book  and  asked  for  power  to  carry  it  into 
effect,  he'd  have  had  my  vote  for  the  asking.  I  know  him." 
A  pause.  "I  know  his  father."  Another  pause.  "And  I 
knew  his  grandfather.  What  does  anyone  here  know  of 
Mr.  Playfair" — pause,  and  then  significantly — "or  his  ante- 
cedents, before  the  day  when  he  came  carpet-bagging  into 
Riversley  as  the  Radical-Conservative  candidate?" 


200  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

He  ended  abruptly  and  sat  down,  leaving  the  audience 
to  make  what  they  could  out  of  his  speech.  In  the  silence 
that  followed  Sheila  looked  across  at  Denys  and  saw  that 
the  fighting  expression  had  settled  upon  his  rigid  features: 
neither  of  them  had  any  doubt  of  the  meaning  behind  Wil- 
mot's  repeated  contrasts  betweeen  the  antecedents  of  the 
two  candidates.  Then  Lord  Parkstone  rose  up,  watch  in 
hand. 

"If  no  one  has  any  more  questions  to  put  to  Mr.  Play- 
fair  .  .  ."he  began. 

"Hadn't  he  better  answer  the  questions  that  have  been 
put?"  Wilmot  interrupted.  "Since  I  came  into  this  con- 
stituency I've  heard  rumors  about  Mr.  Playfair.  Is  he 
going  to  clear  himself?  Oh,  it's  no  use  shouting  'Order, 
order.'  What  does  he  say  about  those  rumours  ?  When  he 
comes  and  says,  'Give  me  power,  give  me  power!'  and 
doesn't  say  what  he's  going  to  do  with  it,  I've  a  right  to 
know  something  of  the  man  before  I  trust  myself  to  him." 
"Have  you  any  objection  to  saying  what  the  rumours 
are?"  asked  Lord  Parkstone  indecisively. 

"None  at  all,"  said  Wilmot,  with  cold,  triumphant  venom. 
"I've  heard  that  Mr.  Playfair's  grandfather  was  hanged  for 
murder  and  that  his  father  was  shot  fighting  against  British 
troops.  Is  that  true?" 

A  storm  of  hooting  broke  out  at  the  brutality  of  the  ques- 
tion, but  Wilmot  stood  his  ground  doggedly  and  repeated 
his  words  when  the  uproar  had  subsided. 

"Is  that  true,  Lord  Parkstone?  Is  that  true,  Mr. 
Playfair?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Denys,  with  unconcern. 
Wilmot  considered  the  answer  for  a  moment.     "Thank 
you,  sir ;  I  only  wanted  to  be  sure  of  my  ground." 

He  gathered  up  his  notes  and  stumbled  noisily  into  the 
gangway  preparatory  to  leaving  the  hall.  An  uncannny 
silence  had  fallen  on  the  meeting.  The  brusqueness  of 


SHEILA  LOSES  THE  FIRST  GAME    201 

Wilmot's  manner  of  speech  had  roused  the  latent  irrita- 
bility of  the  audience,  but  their  resentment  had  collapsed  be- 
fore his  bombshell.  The  savagery  of  the  attack  appalled 
them,  and  before  they  could  recover  from  their  first  shock 
they  were  faced  with  an  equal  surprise  in  Denys'  unmoved 
admission.  References  to  hanging  and  shooting  in  the  early 
days  of  the  election  must  have  been  wasted  on  his  regular 
supporters,  or  if  the  reference  had  been  explained  no  one 
had  foreseen  such  a  frontal  attack.  For  a  moment  no  one 
could  trust  his  voice.  Sir  William  sat  watching  Denys: 
he  had  been  in  the  House  on  the  night  when  Piggott  broke 
down  under  cross-examination  and  row  after  row  of  mem- 
bers leapt  to  their  feet  to  cheer  the  presence  of  the  composed 
and  scornfully  unresponsive  Parnell.  Never  since  that  day 
had  he  seen  such  matter-of-fact  absence  of  emotion  in  face 
of  moral  condemnation  or  acquittal  Denys  sat  like  a  figure 
carved  in  marble,  pale  and  tense,  but  collected,  contemptuous 
and  superbly  detached.  Then  the  spell  was  suddenly 
broken:  Daphne  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  beginning 
her  first  political  speech.  Standing  erect  with  the  ermine 
cloak  open  at  the  throat  she  spoke  with  an  ingratiating  smile 
on  her  face  and  a  note  of  unaffected  wonder  in  her  voice. 
"I  hope  the  gentleman  who  has  just  spoken  won't  go  for 
a  minute.  It's  very  stupid  of  me,  but  I  don't  quite  follow 
the  purpose  of  his  questions.  He  seems  to  have  made  some 
discovery  which  everybody  else  had  made  long  before  the 
election  started.  At  least,  everybody  else  that  mattered,  the 
people  who  signed  his  nomination  paper  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  I  don't  see  what  it's  all  got  to  do  with  our  can- 
didate. This  gentleman  talks  about  rumours  going  round 
the  constituency,  and  he  wants  them  confirmed  or  denied. 
Really — !  What  the  gentleman  needs  more  than  anything 
else  is  a  free  library :  any  history  of  Ireland  would  give  him 
the  facts  he  wants  and  a  full  account  of  the  trial.  There's 
no  secret  about  it ;  it's  passed  into  history.  The  gentleman 


2O2 

should  get  the  book  and  read  it ;  it's  quite  cheap.  Mr.  Play- 
fair's  grandfather  was  hanged  for  killing  a  man  in  a  duel. 
He  fought  fair  and  the  other  man  didn't,  but  that  of  course 
is  beside  the  point — unless  perhaps  the  gentleman  thinks 
there  is  some  merit  about  stabbing  in  the  back.  It's  just 
a  matter  of  taste.  And  then  Mr.  Playfair's  father.  The 
gentleman  should  read  a  good  standard  book  on  the  South 
African  war.  He'll  see  that  Mr.  Playfair  was  fighting  for 
the  Boers.  Fair  fighting  again;  he  took  his  chance  of  be- 
ing captured  and  tried  for  treason,  and  he  took  his  chance 
of  being  shot.  And  he  was  shot,  twice  in  the  leg  and  once 
in  the  arm  and  once  in  the  shoulder  and  then  just  once  in 
the  lungs.  Of  course  I  don't  say  that  it  was  the  right  thing 
to  fight  for  the  Boers;  I  don't  think  it  was,  but  anyone's 
at  liberty  to  think  differently,  and  if  they  think  differently 
and  if  they  set  any  store  by  what  they  think,  I  suppose 
they're  free  to  die  for  their  opinions.  The  gentleman  by 
the  door  looks  a  brave  fighter;  I  wonder  how  many  times 
he'd  wait  to  be  shot  ?  I  believe  it's  a  horrid  feeling.  Well, 
the  gentleman  makes  these  alarming  discoveries  and  he 
wants  a  guarantee  that  our  candidate  isn't  going  to  play  the 
confidence  trick  on  him.  D'you  know,  I'm  afraid  I  don't 
exactly  know  what  the  confidence  trick  is.  I  suppose  from 
the  gentleman's  speech  that  it  must  be  a  fraud  of  some  kind. 
Is  it?  Thank  you,  I  see.  You  know,  that  isn't  very  com- 
plimentary to  the  rest  of  us.  I  don't  think  my  grandfather 
would  be  a  party  to  any  fraud,  and  I  don't  think  my  father 
would  either.  Of  course  I  don't  count,  because  I'm  not  a 
public  man;  but  before  the  gentleman  goes  out  and  takes 
our  characters  away  and  tells  the  electors  we  are  all  leagued 
together  to  work  the — what  was  it? — oh,  the  confidence- 
trick,  I  should  like  him  to  believe  that  even  I  shouldn't  be 
sitting  on  the  same  platform  as  Mr.  Playfair  and  can- 
vassing for  him  if  I  thought  he  was  the  abandoned  character 
that  the  gentleman  seems  to  imply." 


SHEILA  LOSES  THE  FIRST  GAME    203 

She  sat  down,  still  smiling  pleasantly,  while  a  low  ripple 
of  laughter  and  applause  spread  over  the  hall.  Men  grouped 
in  masses  run  more  quickly  from  one  extreme  to  the  other 
than  men  taken  singly.  Wilmot  hesitated  and  then  left  the 
hall  without  replying.  For  the  moment  the  situation  was 
saved:  if  the  individual  auditors  were  given  time  to  think 
out  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  position,  no  one  could 
answer  for  their  judgment.  Denys  suddenly  relaxed  his 
rigid  immobility  of  expression  and  leant  over  to  Lord  Park- 
stone. 

"She's  saved  us  for  the  moment,"  he  whispered.  "Ask 
Sir  William  to  propose  the  vote  of  thanks  to  the  chairman. 
Don't  ask  for  the  usual  vote  of  confidence  in  me,  whatever 
you  do.  I  don't  know  if  they'd  stand  it:  they  don't  know, 
•either.  Don't  give  them  time  to  forget  Daphne's  speech  or 
to  think  about  Wilmot." 

Ten  minutes  later  Denys  was  dreamily  handing  the  ladies 
of  the  party  into  their  cars.  As  he  walked  down  the  hall, 
there  had  been  a  half-hearted  attempt  at  applause,  prompted 
more  by  sympathy  than  enthusiasm,  though  when  the  cheer- 
ing was  taken  up  by  the  back  benches  there  was  an  encourag- 
ing sincerity  which  convinced  him  that  though  the  present 
election  might  be  lost,  he  had  won  the  ear  of  Labour  for  a 
future  contest.  Apart  from  that  he  felt  it  would  have  been 
better  never  to  have  stood  for  Riversley.  The  "big  speech" 
had  been  completely  neutralised  by  Wilmot's  exposure,  the 
timid  respectability  of  the  Conservative  voters  would  never 
admit  of  their  supporting  him  when  they  had  had  time  to 
digest  the  events  of  the  evening.  He  stood  practically  where 
he  was  standing  six  months  before,  and  in  the  barren  con- 
flict he  had  sacrificed  more  vital  energy  than  he  dared 
calculate. 

His  reflections  were  disturbed  by  the  necessity  of  finding 
a  vacant  seat  in  one  of  the  cars.  Lady  Parkstone,  who  had 
been  dining  out  and  therefore  had  not  been  present  at  the 


204  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

meeting,  gathered  her  husband,  Daphne,  and  Maurice  into 
her  own  car,  another  was  taken  up  with  Denys'  agent  and 
three  of  his  most  strenuous  canvassers,  so  that  he  and  Sheila 
were  left  to  take  their  seats  in  a  small  landaulette  usually 
reserved  for  the  use  of  Maurice's  aunt.  Denys  gave  his 
hand  to  Sheila,  wrapped  a  rug  round  her,  and  sank  moodily 
into  his  corner. 

"We've  both  got  something  to  thank  Daphne  for,"  said 
Sheila  when  they  had  driven  in  silence  for  three  or  four 
minutes. 

"I  hope  you  weren't  bored  by  the  meeting,"  he  said  with 
exasperating  politeness.  "We  laid  on  rather  more  variety 
and  excitement  than  usual." 

"That  didn't  prevent  me  from  getting  bored,"  she  replied 
with  an  obvious  yawn.  "However,  don't  let's  talk  about  it. 
Polling  to-morrow,  isn't  it,  or  the  next  day?  And  then  the 
suspense  will  be  over." 

"I  don't  think  we  need  get  in  a  flutter  about  the  suspense. 
I'll  make  you  a  present  of  the  odd  trick  this  time, 
Sheila.  The  'odd  trick' — that's  rather  a  happy  name  for 
it." 

"I  can  win  without  any  odd  tricks  of  that  kind,  thank 
you.  I  suppose  you  think  I  put  the  idea  into  Wilmot's 
head." 

"Did  you?" 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"You're  capable  of  it,  you  know,  if  you  thought  it  would 
suit  your  purpose.  The  first  time  I  saw  you  I  said  you'd 
stick  at  nothing  to  get  what  you  wanted,  though  heaven 
knows  what  you  want  or  why  you  want  it.  I've  never  seen 
any  reason  to  modify  that  view.  Look  at  the  way  you're 
treating  Maurice,  look  at  the  way  Daphne's  made  a  pawn 
in  the  game." 

"And  look  at  the  way  poor  little  Denys  is  being  ill-used. 
You're  really  rather  delightful,  my  little  friend.  I'll  tell 


SHEILA  LOSES  THE  FIRST  GAME    205, 

you  a  story.  There  was  once  an  anarchist  who  wanted  to 
upset  society.  He  proposed  to  start  by  blowing  up  St. 
Paul's,  so  he  ordered  a  nice  supply  of  dynamite.  Unfor- 
tunately the  dynamite  didn't  arrive  on  the  day  it  had  been 
promised,  so  our  resourceful  anarchist  brought  an  action 
for  breach  of  contract.  That's  you,  Denys,  all  over.  You 
tell  me  you're  going  to  have  your  revenge  on  all  of  us  be- 
cause some  of  our  ancestors  fell  foul  of  one  of  your 
ancestors,  and  then  it's  quite  a  grievance  if  we  stick  out 
our  quills  and  prick  your  fingers." 

"I  didn't  tell  you  so." 

"No,  but  I  found  out.  That's  what  you've  really  never 
forgiven." 

"You  may  use  what  weapons  you  like  against  me,  but  you 
aren't  treating  Maurice  fairly." 

"He  shouldn't  have  laid  his  unclean  hands  on  Daphne. 
I'm  doing  her  a  service,  at  any  rate.  And  that  disposes  of 
them.  Any  more  complaints?  You've  still  got  five  minutes 
or  so  before  we're  home.  Anyone  else  I've  victimised?" 

"Yes." 

"Who?" 

"Yourself." 

"Me  ?  Poor  little  Sheila  Farling  ?  I  must  look  into  this. 
She's  rather  a  dear,  only  she's  not  always  appreciated. 
What's  the  matter  with  her?" 

Denys  hesitated  and  then  plunged  boldly  into  a  warning 
he  had  been  saving  up  for  several  days. 

"Well,  it's  just  possible  that  when  people  see  the  en- 
couragement you're  giving  Maurice,  and  when  they  know 
he's  engaged  to  Daphne,  and  when  they  hear  the  engage- 
ment's broken  off,  there  will  be  some  spiteful  remarks  at 
the  expense  of  your  character  and  designs." 

"And  you  wouldn't  like  that,  would  you,  Denys  ?" 

"No,  I  shouldn't!"  he  burst  out. 

Sheila  sat  silent  till  the  car  came  to  a  standstill  at  the 


206  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

door  of  the  house.  Then  she  laid  a  gentle  hand  on  his 
knee,  and  said  with  a  slight  quaver  in  her  voice : 

"That's  the  first  time  in  your  life  you've  ever  thought  of 
anybody  but  yourself.  You  have  your  good  moments.  It's 
all  right,  I  can  take  care  of  myself. 

"It's  not  the  first  time,  it's  not  all  right,  you  can't  take 
care  of  yourself,  otherwise  your  statement  is  fairly  accurate. 
Do  try  to  recognize  that  you're  not  a  law  unto  yourself; 
your  venomous  sex  makes  the  same  venomous  remarks 
about  you  as  about  anyone  else.  Why  can't  you  recognize 
that?" 

"D'you  think  I  don't?"  she  asked  bitterly,  and  then  with 
mocking  regret:  "Muddle-headed  as  ever!  Sheila  missed 
a  lot  by  being  born  a  girl.  Denys,  I'm  sorry  about  to-night, 
it  was  a  devilish  thing  to  do.  You  don't  really  think  I  told 
him?" 

"Of  course  I  don't." 

"Honour?,    Right.     Friends." 

She  touched  his  hand  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  jumped 
out  of  the  car  and  ran  into  the  hall,  where  the  rest  of  the 
party  were  assembled.  Wilmot's  speech  had  thrown  a 
gloom  over  the  spirits  of  all,  and  there  was  no  attempt  at 
the  usual  discussion  of  prospects  and  tactics.  Daphne's 
intervention  was  the  topic  of  the  moment,  but  though  all 
were  amazed  at  rescue  being  attempted  from  such  a  quarter, 
none  dared  hope  that  it  would  be  successful.  Denys  drew 
up  a  chair  next  to  hers  and  thanked  her  for  the  speech. 

"I  was  never  so  frightened  in  my  life,"  she  confided  with 
unaffected  surprise  at  her  own  achievement. 

"It  was  a  fine  finish  to  all  you've  done  in  the  election. 
If  I  get  in  I  shall  have  you  and  you  only  to  thank.  You've 
been  my  best  canvasser  and  my  best  speaker.  Anybody  can 
make  a  set  speech  when  they're  prepared  for  it,  but  to  get 
up  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  when  everybody  else  sat 
tongue-tied  ..." 


SHEILA  LOSES  THE  FIRST  GAME    207 

"I  do  hope  you'll  get  in,"  she  interrupted,  with  an  obvious 
desire  to  leave  the  subject  of  her  own  endeavours. 

"Don't  build  too  much  on  the  hope,"  he  answered  de- 
spondently. 

"Even  if  you  don't  this  time,  there'll  soon  be  another  seat 
vacant.  Hallo !  everyone's  going  to  bed.  Good-night,  and 
good  luck!" 

One  by  one  the  guests  retired  upstairs,  until  Denys  was 
left  alone  to  finish  his  cigar  and  stare  into  the  embers  of 
the  dying  fire.  The  butler  came  to  inspect  the  fastenings  of 
window  and  door  and  enquire  whether  anything  more  was 
wanted.  Before  leaving  he  placed  the  evening's  mail  on  a 
table  by  Denys'  side  and  mentioned  that  a  messenger  had 
just  ridden  over  with  a  note  which  required  no  answer. 
Denys  took  it  in  his  hand,  but  for  the  present  left  it  un- 
opened while  he  followed  out  his  train  of  thoughts.  What 
were  his  present  position  and  prospects?  What  would  they 
have  been  if  oblivion  had  descended  on  his  mind,  wiping^ 
out  the  memory  of  his  grandfather's  martyrdom  and  his 
own  mission,  leaving'  him  to  shape  his  own  life  and  follow 
his  own  impulses? 

As  the  darkened  house  settled  gradually  to  silence,  his 
nerves  grew  tranquil  and  the  old  vision  gave  place  to  a  new 
one.  Temptation,  apathy,  reaction,  be  the  reason  what  it 
might,  for  the  first  time  in  his  memory  he  was  dreaming  of 
himself  as  a  man  suddenly  released  from  obligation.  The 
first  eager  steps  into  forget  fulness  were  familiar:  when- 
ever his  mind  went  back  to  Oxford  and  his  books,  he  had 
played  with  the  idea  of  what  his  life  might  have  been  made. 
The  fancy  had  always  been  discussed  as  idle  and  morally 
corrupting,  now  he  was  too  tired  to  resist  it.  The  changing 
scene  of  the  evening  lingered  obstinately  for  a  moment — 
the  passive,  silent  audience,  the  outburst  of  cheering,  the 
heavy,  wicked  face  of  Wilmot,  the  bombshell,  the  sudden 
hush,  the  shy,  unexpected  voice  of  Daphne — then  passed 


208  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

away  and  left  him  to  continue  his  dream.  Into  that  dream 
came  the  memory  of  a  car  running  swiftly  along  a  frost- 
bound  road,  a  white  half-circle  of  light  blazing  on  to  snow- 
covered  hedges,  two  voices  :  he  recognized  his  own,  speaking 
with  a  petulance  that  he  regretted,  and  then  Sheila's,  speak- 
ing in  a  tone  he  loved  to  hear,  however  petulant.  The  voices 
softened  and  grew  friendly:  then  the  car  stopped,  and  the 
lights  of  the  hall,  shining  through  the  window,  fell  on  a 
wistful  little  face  and  two  large  black  eyes.  There  was  an 
expression  he  had  never  seen  on  that  or  any  other  face — 
tenderness,  humility,  and  hopeless  resignation ;  the  light  had 
caught  her  exposing  an  unknown  aspect  of  her  soul.  Then 
the  face  was  hidden  as  she  brushed  past  him  .  .  .  Into 
the  dream  came  the  touch  of  her  fingers  on  his  hand  and 
the  sound  of  a  thrilling,  eager  voice ;  then  the  vision  materi- 
alised into  a  Sheila  of  flesh  and  blood,  leaning  over  the  back 
of  his  chair  in  a  scarlet  silk  peignoire,  and  imploring  him 
to  go  to  bed  like  a  dear,  sweet,  rational  creature.  He 
shivered  and  came  out  of  his  dreams. 

"Denys,  I've  come  to  make  peace.  We'll  finish  the  rub- 
ber, if  you  like,  in  a  month's  time,  but  just  at  the  moment 
we  want  a — what-do-you-call-it  ? — armistice,  to  bury  our 
dead.  This  is  Tuesday :  or  rather  it's  Wednesday  morning, 
owing  to  your  unreasonable  hours :  the  ball's  on  Friday,  and 
on  Monday  Father  Time  and  I  are  going  south.  The  'Bird 
of  Time'  is  fitted  out  all  ready  and  we're  going  a  trial  trip 
to  Toulon.  If  we  like  the  weather  we  shall  go  on  for  a 
few  days  to  the  the  Riveria  and  then  home  again.  We  want 
you  to  come  with  us,  Denys.  If  you're  bored,  you  can  go 
overland  home  in  twenty-four  hours,  otherwise  come  back 
by  sea  and  support  me  in  the  Bay.  If  you  like  it  and  we 
don't  find  any  holes  in  the  'Bird  of  Time/  you  can  come 
out  to  the  Pacific  with  us:  if  not,  you  can  do  the  other 
thing.  Will  you  come?" 

He  threw  away  the  end  of  his  cigar. 


SHEILA  LOSES  THE  FIRST  GAME    209 

"What's  the  ulterior  motive,  Sheila  ?" 

She  drew  up  a  footstool  and  seated  herself  at  his  feet, 
clasping  her  hands  round  her  knees. 

"I  wonder  if  there's  anything  in  the  whole  wide  world 
I  could  do  to  make  you  think  well  of  me.  I  tell  you  it's 
peace  between  us  and  you  won't  believe  me.  Listen  to  rea- 
son, Denys.  Polling's  to-morrow:  whether  you  get  in  or 
not,  the  Riversley  chapter  closes  in  less  than  twenty-four 
hours.  Say  you're  beaten:  you  can't  do  anything  till  an- 
other seat  becomes  vacant,  so  no  time's  lost  for  either  of  us 
by  your  coming  abroad.  Say  you  win :  well,  Daphne  will 
have  got  you  in  by  her  pretty  little  speech  to-night  and  by 
saying  she  wouldn't  have  worked  for  you  if  she  hadn't 
trusted  you.  You'll  find  it  a  bit  hard  to  drive  the  Jugger- 
naut Car  with  that  speech  of  Daphne's  to  explain  away.  I 
told  you  we  both  had  something  to  thank  her  for.  And 
meantime  you're  looking  like  the  end  of  the  world  and  I 
want  to  avoid  an  inquest  in  the  house.  Is  that  plain 
enough  ?" 

"Quite.    Why  this  flattering  solicitude  about  my  health  ?" 

"What  a  fool  the  boy  is!  Denys,  do  you  think  nobody 
cares  whether  you  live  or  die  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Fool!  Hopeless,  unutterable,  stupendous  fool!  I'm 
sorry,  Denys,  I  had  to  say  it.  /  care  for  one,  or  else  I 
shouldn't  be  talking  to  you  at  this  hour — and  in  these  clothes. 
Do  you  say  you  will." 

"I  ..."    He  paused. 

"Go  on." 

But  Denys  had  lost  the  power  of  speech.  His  parted 
lips  worked  for  an  instant  and  then  closed  in  silence;  an 
expression  of  fear  and  effort  and  bewilderment  came  into 
his  eyes,  and  his  hand  worked  feebly  in  the  air. 

"Go  on,  Denys.  I  ...  Say  you  will.  What's  the 
matter?" 


210  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"What  was  I  saying?"  The  words  came  from  a  distance 
and  he  shivered  as  he  spoke. 

"You  started  'I/  and  then  stopped." 

"What  were  you  saying?" 

"My  dear,  this  is  waste  of  time.  I'm  not  going  over  the 
whole  of  our  conversation.  Will  you  come?" 

"Where?" 

"Denys,  aren't  you  well  ?" 

He  got  up  and  stood  leaning  his  head  against  the  mantel- 
piece. "Some  day  that  will  happen  when  I'm  making  a 
public  speech,  and  then  I  shall  be  done.  How  long  was  I 
like  that,  Sheila,  not  speaking?" 

"About  three  seconds." 

"It  seemed  like  three  hours.  Oh,  my  God,  it  i«  an  awful 
feeling!  Your  brain  suddenly  goes,  you  can't  think  and 
you  can't  speak,  and  it  seems  as  if  it  were  never  going  to 
end.  We'll  finish  whatever  we  were  talking  about  to- 
morrow, Sheila;  my  nerve's  gone." 

She  watched  the  sudden  change  with  alarm.  In  less  than 
a  minute  all  the  strength  had  gone  out  of  him,  and  he  stood 
tremulous  and  tottering  like  a  child  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

"Take  my  arm  and  come  slowly.  Look  here,  are  you  fit 
to  put  yourself  to  bed  or  shall  I  wake  up  Maurice?  Right. 
Here  are  some  letters  for  you,  but  they'll  keep  till  the 
morning.  There's  one  marked  'Urgent.'  I  don't  suppose 
it's  anything." 

He  took  it  in  silence  and  glanced  at  the  hasty  pencil- 
scrawl:  then  he  handed  it  to  Sheila.  It  was  from  Jack 
Melbourne :  the  point  of  the  pencil  had  been  broken  in  the 
first  line  and  for  once  he  was  too  much  roused  for  posturing. 

"Mv  DEAR  DENNY"  (it  ran), 

"That  swine  Wilmot  has  just  asked  me  to  congratu- 
late him  on  his  performance  to-night.  Of  course  you  know 
I  had  no  part  in  it,  and  if  I'd  been  present  at  the  meeting 


SHEILA  LOSES  THE  FIRST  GAME    211 

I'd  have  thrashed  him  publicly.  My  good  wishes  for  your 
election!  They  can't  help  returning  you,  because  you're 
the  only  candidate  now  that  I've  retired.  At  least,  I  think 
I've  retired,  but  I've  got  to  find  out  if  it's  in  order  for  a 
candidate  once  nominated  to  clear  out  before  the  poll.  If 
it  is,  out  I  clear :  if  it  isn't,  you'll  find  me  among  your  most 
stalwart  supporters,  and  Head  Quarters  can  say  what  they 
like. 

"Ever  yours, 

"JACK  M. 

"P.S. — A  more  damnable,  cruel  trick  I've  never  heard 
of.  J.  M." 

Sheila  handed  him  back  the  letter.  He  pocketed  it  with 
a  smile  and  pitiful,  swaggering  attempt  to  kindle  the  light 
of  battle  in  his  tired,  frightened  eyes. 

"He  scored  in  too  much  of  a  hurry,"  said  Sheila  calmly, 
"the  odd  trick  goes  to  you." 

"And  the  rubber." 

"There's  another  game  yet.  You're  forgetting  Daphne's 
speech." 

"It  doesn't  count  now:  Jack  has  wiped  out  opposition 
and  the  game's  over." 

"I'll  leave  Daphne  to  discuss  that  with  you.  Anyway 
I've  finished  with  it  and  perhaps  you'll  give  me  a  consola- 
tion prize.  I  like  to  get  my  own  way,  but  I  do  sometimes 
have  other  people's  interests  at  heart.  Some  day  you  may 
believe  that." 

She  turned  and  started  up  the  stairs,  weary  and  crest- 
fallen. Denys  watched  the  slight  figure  and  bent  head  for 
a  moment  and  then  hurried  after  her.  Suddenly  he  seemed 
to  be  seeing  below  the  mischievous,  laughing  exterior,  pene- 
trating to  a  heart  that  was  soft  and  all  too  easily  wounded, 
and  identifying  the  Sheila  that  he  saw  with  the  Sheila  he 
had  fancied  in  his  dream. 


212  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"If  I  could  unsay  all  the  beastly  things  I've  said  to  you 
since  we've  been  down  here  together,  I'd  make  you  a  present 
of  the  election  and  .  .  .  and  everything  it  means  to  me." 

She  halted  on  the  stairs  and  looked  at  his  white,  eager 
face.  For  a  moment  there  was  a  strong  impulse  to  throw 
herself  into  his  arms  and  crave  permission  to  smoothe  out 
the  creases  in  a  lonely  and  joyless  life.  Then  she  saw  her- 
self caught  in  a  trap  of  her  own  contriving:  Maurice 
would  not,  abandon  Daphne  until  he  had  convinced  himself 
that  Denys  was  more  acceptable  in  her  eyes ;  if  Daphne  was 
to  be  liberated  and  made  happy,  if  Denys  was  to  be  the 
liberator,  there  was  no  room  for  her  in  the  tableau  she  had 
so  elaborately  designed.  She  took  him  by  the  arm  and 
walked  by  his  side  to  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"Some  day  you'll  begin  to  understand  me,"  she  said 
banteringly.  "Sheila  may  not  have  a  soul  to  save,  but  she's 
feelings  to  be  hurt.  Yes,  it's  all  right,  you're  beginning 
to  see  that.  Some  day  you'll  remember  before  you  hurt 
them.  But  I  don't  want  the  election  as  a  present.  I  told 
you  I'd  retired  from  the  game.  Let's  just  be  friends ;  I  can 
be  quite  nice  to  a  lot  of  people  I'm  fond  of.  I  look  after 
them  and  take  a  lot  of  trouble  with  them.  And  you  know 
you're  not  fit  to  look  after  yourself.  I  told  you  that  the  first 
day  I  met  you.  That's  why  I  want  you  to  come  to  the 
Mediterranean  with  Father  Time  and  me :  it  would  do  you 
good.  Think  it  over  and  tell  me  to-morrow,  and  now  go 
to  bed  and  get  some  sleep.  Good-night." 

For  two  days  Denys  kept  his  room,  winning  sleep  with 
the  aid  of  veronal.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  ball,  Maurice, 
entering  on  tip-toe,  found  him  awake. 

"Feelin'  better,  old  thing?"  he  asked,  sitting  down  on  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  "I've  been  in  to  see  you  once  or  twice,  but 
you  were  sleepin'  like  the  proverbial  hog.  Look  here,  touch- 
in'  this  ball,  I'm  thinkin'  we'd  better  scratch  it ;  you're  not  in 
a  fit  state  to  have  the  house  invaded  by  half  the  county  plus 


SHEILA  LOSES  THE  FIRST  GAME    213 

a  band.  A  little  brisk  work  with  His  Majesty's  telegraph 
and  the  thing's  done." 

"It's  not  to  be  thought  of,"  said  Denys.  "I'm  coming 
to  it." 

"No  such  thing;  you're  goin'  to -lie  still  and  lap  up  milk 
every  two  hours  till  it  trickles  down  the  corners  of  your 
mouth,  and  if  you  give  any  trouble  you'll  be  strapped  down." 

"What  d'you  bet?" 

Maurice  became  reasonable  in  his  own  way. 

"Look  here,  everyone  knows  that  Balaam's  prize  ass 
wasn't  in  it  with  you  for  obstinacy,  but  do  try  to  be  sane 
just  for  a  minute.  The  damned  election's  over,  the  damned 
candidate — meanin'  you — is  entitled  to  put  M.P.  after  his 
damned  name;  you're  lookin'  rotten,  you're  as  thin  as  a 
clothes-pole  and  as  white  as  a  sheet.  God!  man,  look  at 
your  arms!  they're  like  a  girl's,  and  a  pretty  skinny  girl's 
at  that.  Yes,  you  put  'em  out  of  sight.  Well,  goin'  back 
to  our  muttons,  you've  just  got  to  take  care  of  yourself. 
You're  one  of  the  things  that  matter,  you've  got  a  head- 
piece, not  like  me,  and  you're  about  as  over-trained  as  any 
ugly  brute  I've  ever  seen." 

"But  I've  never  felt  better  in  my  life,"  Denys  protested. 

"Mouldy  sort  of  life  you  must  lead.  Honestly  you'd 
better  not." 

"But  it's  Daphne's  birthday,  you  seem  to  forget  that. 
So  the  ball  can't  be  put  off,  and  if  there's  a  ball  going  I  don't 
propose  to  miss  it.  By  the  way,  there's  a  case  on  the  dress- 
ing-table I  want  you  to  give  her  from  me." 

"Poor  little  Daphne !" 

"Why?" 

"She's  been  born  into  the  wrong  world." 

Maurice  got  up  from  the  bed  to  inspect  the  case  and 
the  pendant  it  contained.  He  had  come  into  the  room  with 
a  hazy  idea  of  seeking  advice  from  Denys ;  reflection  showed 
him  that  he  must  depend  on  himself  to  work  out  his  own 


2i4  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

salvation  or  the  salvation  Sheila  had  ordained  for  him. 
At  the  moment  he  would  have  bartered  his  hopes  of  eternity 
for  an  excuse  to  get  away  from  Riversley  before  the  state 
birthday  dinner  and  ball. 

"It's  a  wearin'  business  bein'  host,"  he  remarked  discon- 
solately. "People  arrivin'  by  every  post,  and  my  future— 
her  ladyship  in  a  temper  that'd  draw  tears  from  a  horse- 
coper.  Wonder  what  poor  old  Parkstone  did  to  deserve  a 
wife  like  that!  Jacky  Melbourne's  comin'  for  the  night, 
that's  one  good  thing,  he'll  humble  her  pride.  'Parently 
'our  father's'  arrangements  don't  run  to  givin'  Jacky  a 
hot  bath  after  a  ball.  Hence  the  honour." 

Denys  sat  up  and  reached  for  a  dressing-gown. 

"Pull  up  the  blinds,  Maurice,  will  you?  Hullo,  who's 
been  cutting  your  head  for  you?" 

Maurice's  hand  went  to  a  star-fish  pattern  of  plaster 
over  the  right  temple. 

"That's  a  political  argument,"  he  said  with  an  appreciative 
grin.  "Sheila  an'  I  took  our  livers  walkin'  yesterday,  and 
who  should  we  meet  but  our  red-haired  friend?  He  was 
wearin'  a  doggy  fur  coat,  so  I  gave  tongue  and  shouted: 
'Off  with  the  coat,  Wilmot!'  'What's  the  matter?'  says  he. 
'Well,  it  looks  a  good  coat,'  I  said,  'it'd  be  a  pity  to  get  it 
wet,  and  I  propose  to  pop  you  in  the  pond.'  Wilmot  didn't 
say  much,  but  he  looked  nasty.  He  wouldn't  take  the  coat 
off  though,  so  I  tried  to  help  him  and  got  wiped  over  the 
head  for  my  pains.  Good,  beefy  man,  Wilmot,  but  no 
knowledge  of  the  Gentle  Art.  I  got  right  home  on  the  point 
of  his  jaw,  and  while  he  was  thinkin'  what  a  poor,  hard 
place  the  earth  was,  I  showed  him  how  much  cooler  and 
softer  he'd  find  the  water  by  comparison.  We  were  by  the 
Ford,  a  perfect  godsend.  In  he  went,  down,  down,  down: 
up  he  came  with  his  hair  full  of  weed,  spittin'  and  swearin'. 
I  don't  know  what  Sheila  must  have  thought.  He'd  left  his 
Stick  behind  as  a  little  keepsake,  and  whenever  he  waded  in 


SHEILA  LOSES  THE  FIRST  GAME    215 

shore  I  lammed  it  down  within  an  inch  of  his  carcase.  Didn't 
hit  him,  of  course,  just  demonstrated  the  difficulties  of 
landin'.  We  must  have  spent  ten  minutes  dancin'  up  and 
down  opposite  each  other.  I  was  in  a  sweat  when  we'd 
done.  I  bet  Wilmot  wasn't.  Finally  he  waded  through  to 
the  other  side  with  the  stick  hurtlin'  after  him  and  pickin' 
him  off  in  the  fleshy  part  of  the  neck.  I  thought  I'd  killed 
him." 

"You'll  find  yourself  in  gaol  for  that,"  said  Denys  en- 
couragingly. 

"Where's  the  evidence?"  asked  Maurice  with  unconcern. 
"Not  even  a  stick  or  fur  coat  concealed  about  my  person, 
not  a  soul  lookin'  on  bar  Sheila,  and  she's  goin'  abroad. 
It  was  like  the  dear  old  days  round  Mercury." 

"What's  the  time?"  asked  Denys,  getting  out  of  bed. 
"My  watch  has  stopped."  , 

"Quarter  to  five.    Like  some  tea?" 

"I  can  hang  on  till  dinner.  Well,  I  must  get  shaved. 
Are  you  going?  Don't  forget  the  case  for  Daphne,  and 
tell  her  I  hope  she'll  have  very  many  happy  returns  of 
the  day." 

Maurice's  despondency  returned  with  the  thought  of  all 
the  evening  had  in  store  for  him. 

"I  hope  for  her  sake  she  won't  have  any  more  days  like 
this,"  he  answered  darkly. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MAURICE   MAKES  A  DISCREET   SPEECH 

"Some  would  know 

Why  I  so 
Long  still  do  tarry, 

And  ask  why 

Here  that  I 
Live  and  not  marry. 

Thus  I  those 

Do  oppose: 
What  man  would  be  here 

Slave  to  thrall 

If  at  all 
He  could  live  free  here?" 

— HERRICK:  "HESPERIDES." 

"Ix's  almost  worth  reaching  years  of  discretion,  to  pick 
up  these  elegant  and  expensive  trifles,  Lady  Daphne." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Jack  Melbourne  had  been  de- 
ceived by  the  eccentricities  of  his  watch  into  being  dressed 
a  full  five  minutes  before  dinner.  With  the  air  of  a  lost 
soul  straying  disconsolately  round  Paradise,  he  was  now 
soothing  himself  with  a  cigarette  and  affecting  an  interest 
in  Daphne's  coming-of-age  presents. 

"Have  you  seen  the  pendant  Denys  gave  me?  It's  the 
loveliest  thing  I've  ever  had.  I  wish  people  wouldn't 
spend  so  much  money  on  me." 

"But  why  not?  There's  a  great  satisfaction  in  collect- 
ing widows'  mites.  He  can't  afford  it  or  he  wouldn't 
have  given  it  you.  When  I  came  of  age  I  was  given  a 
bible,  a  silver  pencil-case,  and  a  postcard  telling  me  that 
I  was  no  longer  a  minor  and  that  all  offers  of  my  hand 

216 


A  DISCREET  SPEECH 

in  marriage  would  be  used  as  evidence  against  me.  Money- 
lenders' circulars  followed  in  bewildering  profusion.  Who 
gave  you  the  pearl  dog-collar?" 

"Maurice." 

"Why  has  he  scratched  'Lethe'  inside  the  clasp jj" 

"I  don't  know.     Maurice!" 

"Don't  interrupt  him,  he's  thinking  out  his  speech." 

"But  I  want  the  inscription  explained." 

Daphne  also  wanted  to  avoid  the  subject  of  the  speech. 
From  the  time  when  her  mother  visited  her  in  bed  to  be- 
stow a  pecking  kiss  and  a  frigid  caress,  it  had  been  borne 
in  upon  her  that  she  was  now  of  full  age  and  of  a  discretion 
equal  to  the  task  of  determining  whether  her  engagement 
with  Maurice  was  to  continue.  She  had  awakened  with  a 
feeling  of  impending  doom  heavy  upon  her,  and  the  burden 
had  not  been  relieved  by  her  mother's  unceasing  question 
what — if  anything — Maurice  had  done  to  diminish  her 
regard  for  him?  By  luncheon  time  she  had  argued  herself 
into  great  clarity  of  thought  and  extreme  discomfort  of 
mind.  The  engagement  had  begun  at  a  moment  when  her 
feelings  were  in  disorder:  he  had  saved  her  life  at  the 
risk  of  his  own,  she  was  grateful  to  him,  and  above  all  she 
was  glamoured  by  the  sight  of  danger  light-heartedly  en- 
countered. By  contrast  with  her  own  shrinking  and  sen- 
sitive nature  Maurice  was  attractively  strong  and  reassur- 
ing. Intellectually  he  might  be  commonplace,  but  the  same 
charge  could  be  brought  against  most  of  the  young  men 
she  met.  Since  that  day  what  had  happened?  In  tracing 
the  course  of  the  last  twelve  months  she  treated  herself 
without  pity.  Maurice  was  unchanged:  the  bluff,  good- 
natured  strength  and  cheery  courage  which  had  won  her 
were  in  no  way  abated.  The  change,  if  change  there  were, 
had  taken  place  in  herself. 

For  a  while  her  mind  dwelt  on  the  first  easy,  unfettered 
conversations  with  Denys,  when  something  in  his  manner 


2i 8  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

induced  her  to  pour  out  her  dissatisfaction  with  the  old, 
useless  existence,  and  she  learnt  from  him  to  set  a  value 
on  herself  and  see  vague,  visionary  aspirations  made  con- 
crete and  practical.  In  "The  Trustees  of  Posterity"  he 
had  found  a  waggon  for  her  star.  With  the  appearance 
of  the  book  and  the  return  of  its  author  to  Parliament  her 
own  usefulness  seemed  to  have  evaporated.  When  he  was 
not  by  to  inspire  her,  she  lost  faith  in  herself  and -went 
back  to  the  old  attitude  of  diffidence  and  self-disparage- 
ment. Aspirations,  dreams,  missions,  a  wider  life,  the 
terms  rang  hollow :  her  mother  and  Maurice  misunderstood 
and  doubted  them  till  she  began  to  share  their  doubt.  Some- 
how they  seemed  a  cloak  to  cover  mere  restless  discontent, 
and  when  she  charged  Maurice  with  insensibility,  the  accu- 
sation seemed  not  quite  just;  she  was  keeping  something 
back.  To  the  best  of  his  ability  he  had  humoured  her  and 
tried  to  identify  himself  with  her  interests.  But  his  ef- 
forts had  been  robbed  of  their  value  and  their  reward  on 
the  day  when  a  brilliant,  dark-eyed  Irishman  had  bewitched 
her  ears  and  flung  an  unanswerable  challenge  at  Maurice's 
feet. 

Outside  her  window  the  gardeners  were  sweeping  the 
snow  from  the  terrace.  Passively  watching  them,  she  re- 
called the  other  terrace  which  she  had  paced  with  Denys 
in  the  warm  summer  evenings,  greedily  drinking  chance 
tales  of  a  life  that  realised  her  own  impossible  dreaming. 
The  diverse  past,  the  crowded  present,  the  boundless  future. 
She  saw  once  again  the  pale,  thin,  animated  face,  the  quick 
smile,  the  flashing,  deep-set  eyes;  once  more  she  heard  the 
soft,  low  voice,  gathering  gradual  speed  as  his  subject 
gripped  him.  She  remembered  the  growing  hush  round 
the  table  as  one  guest  after  another  paused  to  listen  to  the 
coining  of  magical  phrase.  His  words  fell  like  notes  of 
wild  harping,  now  lulling  to  slumber,  now  rousing  to 
frenzy.  It  was  an  irresistible  outpouring:  she  did  not 


A  DISCREET  SPEECH  219 

wonder  that  a  tired,  indifferent  meeting  sat  spellbound 
while  he  spoke,  or  leapt  up  with  hysterical  cheering  when 
he  finished.  For  one,  two,  three  months  she  had  known 
the  joy  of  working  with  and  for  him:  she  had  toiled  with- 
out misgiving:  when  he  told  her  that  politics  for  him 
meant  mere  lust  for  personal  power,  she  preferred  not  to 
take  the  warning  seriously:  the  tongue  which  spoke  as  his 
spoke  and  the  hand  which  had  penned  the  haunting  pages  of 
his  last  book  could  only  be  inspired  by  the  single  love  of 
truth,  the  clearly  heard  call  of  duty,  and  the  appeal  of  suf- 
fering humanity.  That  appeal  had  roused  her  to  a  disgust 
with  her  empty  parasitic  existence:  or  was  it  only  the  con- 
trast between  a  meteor  and  a  clod  of  clay?  Her  thoughts 
rushed  back  and  occupied  the  position  she  had  been  defend- 
ing against  their  attack ;  she  was  punishing  Maurice  because 
she  was  tired  of  him,  and  disguising  her  motives  under 
the  cloak  of  disinterested  duty. 

"Maurice,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  why  you  scratched 
'Lethe'  on  the  clasp  of  this  collar." 

Jack  Melbourne  had  wandered  away  to  the  fire  and  they 
were  standing  alone  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  Maurice 
hesitated  and  then  lowered  his  voice. 

"Lethe:  it  means  forgetfulness,  Daphne.  I  want  you 
to  forget  what  a  beast  I  am." 

"But,  Maurice!"  She  looked  up  to  find  he  had  moved 
away.  The  inscription  had  been  the  subject  of  controversy 
between  Sheila,  who  had  put  the  idea  in  his  mind,  Maurice, 
who  was  uncertain  whether  Lethe  or  Acheron  was  intended, 
and  Denys,  who  knew  nothing  of  Maurice's  motives  but 
had  been  called  in  on  a  point  of  scholarship  as  a  man  who 
knew  the  Greek  characters  and  could,  if  necessary,  rough 
them  out  on  paper  for  Maurice  to  copy.  Ever  since  he  had 
scratched  them  there,  Maurice  had  been  regretting  his  ac- 
tion, or  rather  the  whole  conspiracy  of  which  this  was  part. 

During  the  past  two  months  he  had  been  brought  into 


220  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

daily  contact  with  a  sympathetic,  soft-voiced  Sheila  who  no 
longer  laughed  at  him  or  despised  him,  but  talked  interest- 
edly and  intelligently  on  the  subject  near  his  heart:  cubbing 
and  racing,  the  reason  why  Collison  had  given  up  the 
hounds,  and  his  own  prospects  in  taking  over  the  vacant 
mastership.  He  felt  he  had  grown  older  in  those  eight 
weeks:  previously  he  had  been  preoccupied  with  the  idea 
of  marrying  Daphne,  but  he  now  recognised  that  there 
could  quite  well  be  other  girls  as  attractive,  and  far  more 
human,  girls  who  were  not  obsessed  with  the  idea  of  sitting 
on  Distress  Committees,  interfering  with  the  poor  and 
leaving  the  trail  of  their  philanthropy  athwart 'every  legiti- 
mate scent.  Daphne  was  ...  oh  yes,  Daphne  was  all 
right,  and  he  was  very  fond  of  her,  but  marriage  was  a 
serious  business,  devilish  serious.  When  he  married  her 
.  .  .  that  is  to  say,  if  he  married  her,  he'd  do  his  best  to 
fall  in  with  her  strange  views — up  to  a  point.  A  man  had 
himself  to  consider,  too,  and  as  long  as  his  tastes  were 
perfectly  harmless  and  creditable,  there  was  no  sort  of 
reason  why  a  man  should  live  in  an  atmosphere  of 
permanent  disapproval  and  allow  himself  to  be  headed 
off  all  the  innocent  amusements  a  man  might  fancy. 
Marriage  on  those  terms  simply  wasn't  worth  hav- 
ing. 

And  to  move  the  previous  question,  was  it  necessary  to 
marry  at  all?  Denys  seemed  to  live  an  extraordinary  full 
and  satisfactory  life  as  a  bachelor:  Maurice  had  seen  that 
when  he  was  staying  at  Buckingham  Gate ;  he  knew  many 
worse  bachelor  quarters  than  that  flat,  and  he  knew  many 
worse  models  than  Denys.  At  the  same  time  it  would 
probably  be  rather  a  blow  to  Daphne,  who  seemed  as  fond 
of  him  as  ever.  He  had  tested  that  only  a  few  days  before 
by  asking  her  point  blank  if  she  wished  to  break  off  the 
engagement,  and  she  had  said  "No."  In  a  moment  of 
contrition  he  had  scratched  "Lethe"  on  the  clasp  of  the 


A  DISCREET  SPEECH  221 

necklace  and  hoped  in  this  way  to  make  his  peace  in  ad- 
vance; anyhow,  it  would  break  the  shock.  A  man  owed 
something  to  himself,  had  to  think  of  his  own  future.  After 
dinner  that  night  it  was  expected  that  he  would  make  a 
speech  proposing  Daphne's  health  and  giving  publicity  to 
their  unofficial  engagement,  and  the  next  day's  papers 
would  contain  the  announcement  and  make  retreat  well- 
nigh  impossible.  Maurice  was  resolved  to  make  his  speech : 
he  thought  there  might  be  singularly  little  "copy"  in  it.  for 
the  next  day's  Court  Circular. 

As  he  sauntered  moodily  round  the  room  Denys  came 
in  and  was  made  the  target  for  an  onslaught  of  inquiries 
and  congratulations.  When  the  smoke  had  cleared  away, 
Sheila  took  him  aside. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Denys?"  she  asked. 

"In  that  dress  no  one  could  help  it." 

The  dress  in  question  was  white  silk,  with  a  green  tunic 
bordered  with  fur.  In  the  matter  of  clothes  Sheila's  time 
was  spent  in  eclipsing  her  own  records. 

"No,  but  really?" 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  for  you  ?" 

"Talk,  I  want  you  to  talk.  You're  taking  me  in  and  I 
shall  be  simply  speechless.  So  will  everybody  else.  There's 
enough  lightning  about  to  strike  us  all  into  our  graves. 
Aunt  Margaret's  so  jumpy  I  daren't  go  near  her,  Daphne's 
nearly  in  tears,  and  Maurice  is  like  a  man  who's  been  sum- 
moned by  the  last  trump  to  the  Judgment-seat  and  just 
remembers  he's  forgotten  to  put  his  tie  on.  My  dear,  I'm 
nearly  crying  myself." 

She  was  strangely  excited  and  unlike  herself,  talking 
tremulously  and  glancing  nervously  about  her.  Denys 
wondered  anxiously  in  what  new  devilry  he  was  being  in- 
volved. 

"What's  the  matter  with  everyone?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.    At  least  I  do  .  .  ." 


222  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Denys  lowered  his  voice.  "Has  Maurice  .  .  ."he  be- 
gan, looking  at  Daphne. 

"Hush !  no.  He  hasn't  had  time :  people  arriving  all  day 
and  that  sort  of  thing." 

As  Maurice  himself  had  complained  that  afternoon,  a 
host's  duties  are  wearing.  He  had  been  so  preoccupied 
with  hospitality  that  his  guests  had  hardly  seen  him.  Lady 
Parkstone,  after  breakfasting  in  her  room,  descended  with 
determination  in  every  line  of  her  hard  countenance.  She 
wanted  to  see  Maurice;  just  a  word,  she  wouldn't  keep 
him.  It  appeared  that  Maurice  was  in  consultation  with 
the  head-gardener  on  the  subject  of  the  evening's  decora- 
tions. At  luncheon — when  a  host  might  reasonably  be  ex- 
pected— his  chair  was  empty.  Sheila  made  lame  reference 
to  a  man  who  had  wired  changing  his  train.  Maurice, 
it  seemed,  had  driven  in — quite  unnecessarily — to  meet  a 
train  which  was  timed  for  one-thirty  and  did  not  arrive  till 
four.  For  reasons  best  known  to  himself  he  had  driven 
into  the  stable-yard  and  gone  instantly  to  ground  in  Denys' 
bedroom.  Lady  Parkstone  felt  that  she,  and  possibly  in 
a  vague,  unimportant  degree  Daphne  also,  were  not  being 
fairly  treated.  The  suspense  tried  her  temper.  Daphne 
waited  fatalistically;  her  meeting  with  Maurice  had  told 
her  nothing:  six  hurried  words  of  good  wishes,  a  morocco 
case  wrapped  in  tissue  paper — and  he  had  disappeared  as 
quickly  as  he  had  come. 

"I  suppose  he'll  make  the  announcement  to-night,"  said 
Denys. 

"Oh,  sufficient  for  the  day!"  said  Sheila  impatiently. 
"Dinner's  the  first  thing  to  be  faced.  If  you — or  someone 
— don't  get  things  going  we  shall  all  go  up  in  blue 
smoke." 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,  but  I  decline  to  be  mixed  up  in  any 
of  your  machinations,  and  if  you've  any  regard  for  the 
advice  of  anyone  you'll  throw  them  overboard  and  let 


A  DISCREET  SPEECH  223 

destiny  take  its  course.  Are  you  going  to  let  me  take  you 
in  to  supper?" 

"Yes,  if  I'm  alive  by  then." 

"And  dance  with  you?" 

"Afterwards,  yes.     I  shall  be  busy  till  supper." 

"I  know  what  that  means." 

"You  don't.  You  simply  can't  imagine  how  I  hate  it_ 
but  it's  got  to  be  done.  Kismet,  Fate.  I  can't  help  myself." 

"I  never  thought  I  should  hear  that  from  you,"  said 
Denys  quietly. 

"I'm  fighting  for  the  living;  it's  for  Daphne.  Look  at 
her,  doesn't  she  look  lovely  to-night?  Isn't  she  worth  it, 
Denys  ?  I  adore  her  more  than  any  soul  on  earth — almost," 
she  added,  looking  defiantly  up  at  him. 

"Sheila  Farling  always  excepted." 

"Oh,  Denys,  do  try  and  believe  I'm  not  thinking  of  my- 
self to-night." 

The  dinner  began  in  an  atmosphere  of  timid  reserve 
which  fulfilled  Sheila's  anticipations;  conventional  refer- 
ences to  the  flowers  on  the  table,  conscientious  allusions  to 
the  election;  then  the  numbing  chill  of  Lady  Parkstone's 
presence  communicated  itself  to  her  neighbours  and  spread 
down  the  room.  Conversation  had  fallen  to  a  furtive  whis- 
per by  the  time  the  oysters  were  removed,  and  the  soup  was 
eaten  to  its  own  accompaniment.  At  last  Jack  Melbourne 
roused  himself  to  the  occasion.  Accepting  the  expression 
of  disapproval  on  Lady  Parkstone's  face  as  a  challenge,  he 
embarked  on  a  course  of  paradox  and  iconoclasm  cal- 
culated to  attract  a  storm  of  dissent  to  the  head  of  the 
speaker.  Considering  what  opinion  would  be  least  ex- 
pected of  him,  he  would  fling  it  at  the  head  of  his  audience 
with  the  weight  of  unquestioned  dogma.  Sir  William- 
abetted  him  from  the  other  side  of  the  table;  Lord  Park- 
stone  and  a  dull-witted  political  agent  took  it  by  turns  to- 
be  the  foil. 


224  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"Every  advance  in  civilisation  has  been  inspired  by  an 
unjustifiable  motive,"  said  Melbourne  when  the  conversa- 
tion turned  that  way. 

"I  think  it  would  be  possible  to  find  a  good  many  ex- 
ceptions to  that  theory,"  said  Lady  Parkstone  ponderously. 

"Possible,  but  not  easy,"  cut  in  Sir  William  encourag- 
ingly. 

"Oh,  come,  come!"  objected  the  agent,  "the  exceptions 
outnumber  the  instances;  the  theory  won't  bear  examina- 
tion. Take  railways." 

"Railways  won't  bear  examination,"  said  Melbourne. 
"What  was  the  beginning  of  English  railway  enterprise?" 

"The  line  from  Stockton  to  Darlington,  I  believe,"  said 
the  agent  with  modest  omniscience. 

"Exactly,"  agreed  Melbourne,  who  heard  the  fact  for 
the  first  time,  "a  line  built  to  facilitate  entry  into  Stockton 
is  an  enterprise  inspired  by  an  unworthy  motive." 

"Any  desire  to  get  away  from  Darlington  is  praise- 
worthy," suggested  Sir  William.  "It  is  a  question  of  mixed 
motives,  I  should  rather  say." 

Old  Mr.  Collison  leant  across  the  table  and  addressed 
Denys. 

"I  must  congratulate  you  on  your  election,  Playfair, 
but,  upon  my  soul,  this  new  Toryism  frightens  me.  I  con- 
fess I  don't  understand  it.  You'd  have  been  court-martialled 
for  Radicalism  in  my  young  days." 

"It's  only  by  outbidding  the  Radicals  that  you  can  get 
the  ear  of  Labour,"  said  Sir  William.  "Politics  in  this 
country  reduce  themselves  ultimately  to  addition  and  sub- 
traction. Why  force  them  to  the  ultima  ratio  in  which 
you  are  going  to  be  submerged,  when  you  can  win 
over  a  majority  of  converts  andrhelp  to  do  the  submerg- 
ing?" 

"I  know.  Randolph  tried  that  and  failed.  I  told  him  he 
would  fail" 


A  DISCREET  SPEECH  225 

"Randolph  never  carried  his  party  with  him.  We  shall 
fail  again  if  we  can't  do  that." 

"But  what  do  we  stand  to  gain?  Robbery  by  a  friend 
is  just  as  unpleasant  as  robbery  by  an  enemy.  I  don't 
like  being  flayed,  and  all  you  new  Tories  with  your 
Trustees  of  Posterity'  are  going  to  flay  me  just  as  much 
as  the  old  Radicals  and  Socialists  I've  been  abusing  for  a 
generation." 

"We  shan't  skin  you  as  thoroughly,"  said  Sir  William 
soothingly. 

"Why  not  leave  things  as  they  are?"  Collison  leant  for- 
ward and  sawed  the  air  with  his  forefinger.  "I  suppose 
I'm  an  individualist,  I've  always  held  that  a  man  must  work 
out  his  own  salvation.  This  book  of  yours,  Parkstone, 
makes  a  man  something  between  a  convict  and  a  permanent 
invalid.  The  state,  meaning  by  that  a  small  army  of  in- 
spectors generalled  by  a  parcel  of  boys  in  a  Government 
Office,  takes  a  man  and  nursemaids  him:  'Put  out  your 
tongue.  Only  so-so.  We'll  feed  you  on  slops,  and  if  you're 
a  good  boy  we'll  certify  you  fit  for  marriage,  provided  your 
wife  comes  up  to  the  standard  in  Schedule  Z.  Now  let's 
look  at  your  clothes.  Not  hygienic.  Weli,  well.  Go  to 
work.  Not  more  than  eight  hours,  proper  holidays;  we'll 
teach  you  how  to  employ  'em  properly.  We'll  inspect  the 
factory,  and  inspect  the  house  you  live  in,  and  inspect  your 
clothes,  and  inspect  your  children.  We'll  inspect  you  out 
of  existence,  but  we'll  make  a  healthy  citizen  of  you.'  What 
sort  of  a  lame  duck  will  you  get  with  all  your  inspection? 
And  this  comes  from  the  Tory  party,  who've  always 
rather  thought  a  man  might  call  his  soul  his  own,  or  any 
rate  go  to  the  devil  in  his  own  way!" 

"With  the  result  that  you  see  in  every  slum,"  said  Lord 
Parkstone. 

"We  did  get  the  survival  of  the  fittest." 

"Did  we?"  Sir  William  looked  round  the  table  at  the 


226  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

fittest  who  had  survived.  "The  survival  of  the  fittest  only 
means  the  survival  of  the  people  with  best  chance  of  sur- 
viving: you,  I,  all  of  us  here,  the  people  who  had  to  put 
out  our  tongues  and  be  examined  by  the  family  doctor  as 
a  matter  of  course,  and  weren't  overworked,  or  underfed, 
and  were  always  decently  housed.  No  wonder  we  start 
life  with  a  better  chance  of  surviving!  It's  no  merit  of 
our  own." 

"It's  a  merit  of  our  fathers.  If  they  hadn't  had  the 
strength  to  keep  from  going  to  pieces,  we  shouldn't  have 
had  the  start  we  did." 

"Then  a  man  doesn't  really  work  out  his  own  salvation; 
his  father  starts  working  it  out  for  him?" 

"To  some  extent.  And  the  sins  of  the  father  are  visited 
on  the  children." 

"That's  an  argument  the  children  won't  swallow,  and 
it's  the  children,  the  present  generation  in  politics,  we  have 
to  deal  with." 

"You  can't  treat  the  children  like  lay  figures,  apart  from 
the  antecedents  and  surroundings." 

"You  can  alter  the  surroundings:  that's  what  'The 
Trustees'  shows  you  how  to  do." 

Collison  smiled  grimly.     "  'The  Trustees'  was  tactfully 
silent  on  the  point  where  the  money  was  coming  from." 
"Money  comes  from  where  money  is." 
"Me  ?    The  result's  the  same,  whether  you  call  yourselves 
Tories  or   Radicals   or   Socialists.      I   can't  see  why  you 
won't  leave  things  alone;  I  don't  like  this  stirring  of  class 
against  class.     Don't  interfere  with  me  and  I  won't  inter- 
fere with  you." 

For  Denys'  ears  that  philosophy  never  lost  its  ingenuous 
freshness.  Now  in  one  form,  now  in  another,  he  had  heard 
it  so  often  and  had  learned  so  much  from  it.  With  such 
a  frame  of  mind  to  contend  against  he  realised  the  impos- 
sibility of  ever  saving  his  present  allies  from  ultimate  anni- 


A  DISCREET  SPEECH  227 

hilation :  they  were  ci-devants,  Bourbons.  He  saw,  further, 
the  vulnerable  spot  in  their  armour  for  the  day  when  he 
was  turned  over  to  the  enemy's  camp.  And  he  saw  in  their 
lack  of  imagination  and  inaccessibility  to  new  ideas  the  ex- 
planation of  his  grandfather's  tragedy. 

"Would  you  hold  those  'live  and  let)  live'  views  on 
eighteen  shillings  a  week  with  a  wife  and  family  to  bring 
up  in  a  slum,  Mr.  Collison?"  he  asked. 

"Possibly  not,  but  though  I  don't  live  in  a  slum,  believe 
me,  I  don't  like  to  see  other  people  living  there.  We  bigoted 
old  Tories  have  done  something  to  make  things  easier  for 
people  less  happily  placed  than  ourselves.  It  was  ex- 
pected of  us,  and  we  did  it  freely  and  ungrudgingly.  What 
I  can't  stand  is  the  new  idea  that  other  people  have  got  a 
right  to  our  property." 

Lord  Parkstone  took  up  the  running. 

"In  the  modern  state  your  rights  are  limited  to  what 
the  community  in  its  wisdom  or  folly  allows  you.  The 
majority  in  the  state  consists  of  the  relatively  less-possess- 
ing; any  property  that  the  relatively  more-possessing  may 
retain  is  retained  precariously.  It  can  be  voted  away  at  an 
hour's  notice :  it  will  be  largely  voted  away  as  soon  as  the 
democracy  realises  its  strength." 

Sir  William  helped  himself  to  a  salted  almond  and  pointed 
the  moral. 

"Merely  as  a  measure  of  insurance,  Collison,  you  should 
be  glad  to  see  Denys  returned." 

Collison  grunted  and  retired  from  the  conversation. 

"I  think  we  should  look  at  the  question  from  a  different 
point  of  view,"  said  Lord  Parkstone,  with  a  tardy  attempt 
to  rescue  his  ideals.  "Leave  the  aspect  of  insurance  out 
of  account  and  try  to  keep  abreast  of  the  times.  When  you 
read  the  history  of  the  Conservative  Party  in  this  country, 
you're  reading  the  history  of  a  party  that  has  always  been 
in  the  wrong.  With  a  few  creditable  exceptions  we've 


228  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

always  opposed  and  our  opposition  has  always  been  broken 
down  in  the  long  run.  That  is  not  an  encouraging  pros- 
pect. I  don't  like  to  think  that  any  part  I  may  play  in 
shaping  the  destinies  of  the  country  will  be  dismissed  in 
twenty  years'  time  as  part  of  a  blind,  obstinate  opposition 
— for — opposition's  sake  that  hadn't  even  the  merit  of  be- 
ing successful." 

"Isn't  it  time  we  got  back  to  first  principles?"  asked  the 
agent.  "I  take  it  that  the  duty  of  a  Conservative  Party 
is  to  conserve.  We  moderate,  we  don't  obstruct.  When 
an  electrician  turns  a  two-hundred  volt  current  into  a 
hundred  volt  lamp,  the  lamp  is  burnt  out  unless  a  re- 
sistance is  put  in.  You  don't  blame  the  resistance  for 
keeping  the  lamp  on  short  supplies.  It's  the  same  in  pol- 
itics." 

Lord  Parkstone  weighed  the  justice  of  the  comparison. 
7hen  he  said: 

"I  don't  like  your  simile.  In  the  one  case  you've  got 
an  ascertained  force  running  through  a  filament  of  ascer- 
tained strength,  and  to  avert  a  result  which  you  have  learnt 
by  experience  always  takes  place,  you  interpose  a  resistance 
of  ascertained  power.  In  the  other  case.  ..." 

"You  are  dealing  with  a  force  which  has  never  been 
tested  or  measured.  You  want  a  power  of  resistance  equal 
to  all  emergencies." 

"No,  you  want  to  discover  the  nature  of  the  force  before 
you  decide  if  a  resistance  is  necessary.  You  never  try  to 
find  that  out.  You  resist  by  instinct,  out  of  sheer  fright. 
The  experimenters  get  squeezed  out  of  the  party,  and  the 
result  is  what  I've  described;  we're  written  down  as  ob- 
structionists. Look  at  the  last  century!  I  leave  out  the 
franchise  question,  but  we  were  wrong  over  Catholic  Eman- 
cipation, wrong  over  the  Corn  Laws,  wrong  over  most  of 
the  Liberal  Budgets,  wrong  over  Ireland  and  South  Africa. 
We  defended  an  impossible  House  of  Lords,  we  starved 


A  DISCREET  SPEECH  229 

education.  It's  a  melancholy  record:  do  you  wonder  that 
the  democracy  mistrusts  us?" 

Jack  Melbourne  felt  he  had  been  long  enough  out  of  the 
conversation. 

"There's  only  one  thing  worse  than  a  record  of  failure," 
he  broke  in,  "and  that's  a  record  of  success.  My  party,  my 
late  party,  I  should  say — we've  retired  from  political  life 
for  the  present — my  late  party's  been  right  wherever  yours 
has  been  wrong.  Everything  that  you  anathematised  we 
hailed  as  the  dawn  of  a  fresh  era  of  enlightenment.  Where 
has  it  led  us?  To  an  Independent  Labour  Party  which 
brackets  us  as  fellow-conspirators  and  distinguishes  us 
Radicals  by  calling  us  hypocrites.  It's  no  use  trying  to  be 
conducive  or  inspire  confidence,  you  only  cheapen  yourself. 
A  man  remembers  you  if  you  insult  him  or  borrow  money 
from  him,  not  if  you  lend  it.  Unless  you're  inaccessible 
and  rude,  nobody  respects  you.  Look  at  our  record !  We 
promised  the  millennium  with  every  Reform  Bill  we  intro- 
duced, we  promised  it  again  in  a  free  golden  age  of  laissez 
faire,  we  promised  it  when  we  smashed  the  lords'  veto.  On 
an  average  we  promise  it  not  less  than  three  times  a  week." 

Sir  William  turned  to  Collison. 

"You've  heard  both  parties  at  their  examination  in  bank- 
ruptcy. Don't  you  think  there's  room  for  a  new  party 
which  aims  at  understanding  this  all-powerful  democracy?" 

Collison  traced  a  deliberate  pattern  with  his  fork  on  the 
table-cloth. 

"A  man  can  learn  something  about  horses  and  he  can 
study  the  workings  of  a  dog's  mind,  but  the  older  I  get 
the  less  I  believe  an  Englishman  of  one  social  rank  can 
understand  the  feelings  and  the  point  of  view  of  a  man  in 
any  other.  Frankly,  I  don't  understand  your  democracy: 
I  see  it  as  a  restless,  rapacious  mob  which  doesn't  grasp  the 
elementary  distinction  between  meum  and  tuum.  Discon- 
tented, which  is  healthy  enough,  but  always  wanting  to 


230  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

drag  me  down  to  its  level  instead  of  rising  to  mine.  Frankly, 
it  doesn't  understand  me :  it  sees  me  as  a  luxurious  encum- 
brance sitting  tight  on  wealth  I  haven't  earned  and  don't 
deserve  to  keep.  Where  will  you  find  the  pair  of  spectacles 
to  suit  both  our  sights?" 

"Dizzy  found  them,"  said  Sir  William.  "His  outlook 
was  wide  enough  to  see  specks  even  in  a  millennium.  It 
was  no  mean  feat  to  preach  Empire  and  Young  England 
to  Cobden  and  the  school  of  laissez  faire." 

"Ye-es."  Collison  spoke  reflectively.  "I  concede  you 
Dizzy.  And  he  was  an  alien." 

The  conversation  had  been  monopolised  by  a  few  speak- 
ers on  both  sides  in  the  middle  of  the  table:  their  neigh- 
bours had  been  well  content  to  listen  and  be  spared  the  ne- 
cessity of  joining  in.  Lady  Parkstone  at  one  end  and 
Maurice  at  the  other  had  their  own  thoughts  to  occupy 
them:  Sheila  and  those  of  the  house-party  who  had  lived 
through  the  strain  and  indefinable  oppression  of  the  day 
luxuriated  in  an  almost  incredible  relief.  Then,  with  ad- 
mirable intention  and  singular  want  of  tact,  Lord  Parkstone 
dammed  the  gentle  stream. 

"Really,  you  know,  we  owe  an  apology  to  the  ladies,"  he 
said.  "We've  been  getting  frightfully  political." 

"It's  been  very  interesting,"  said  Mrs.  Collison,  bravely, 
but  without  conviction. 

The  early  uncomfortable  silence  returned.  The  men  had 
been  thrown  out  of  their  stride  and  each  waited  for  the 
other  to  set  the  pace.  Sheila  turned  half-face  to  Denys 
and  whispered,  "Now!" 

He  looked  across  to  Collison. 

"I  suppose  it's  a  paradox,  but  I  sometimes  think  that 
only  an  alien  has  the  detachment  to  understand  English  poli- 
tics. On  the  principle  that  a  doctor  does  not  prescribe  for 
his  own  children."  Daphne  looked  up :  he  had  been  sitting 
almost  silent  till  the  mention  of  Disraeli's  name  unloosed 


A  DISCREET  SPEECH  231 

his  tongue :  now  he  began  to  talk  as  she  loved  to  hear  him. 
Opening  diffidently  and  with  full  allowance  for  objections, 
he  gained  vehemence  as  his  theme  developed.    The  subject 
was  lifted  at  once  out  of  the  crude  generalisations  and 
wearisome   commonplaces   of   political   argument:   it  was 
treated  with  a  scholar's  judgment  and  knowledge  and  a 
philosopher's  insight:  with  something,  too,  of  a  prophet's 
fervour.    Sheila  listened,  but  with  the  misgiving  which  al- 
ways assailed  her  when  she  saw  him  talking  for  conquest: 
he  was  holding   his  audience  in  thraldom   and  pledging 
them  to  his  support.     Some  of  the  older  men  had  known 
Disraeli  in  later  life  and  were  struck  by  Denys'  penetration 
into  that  subtle,  mystic  mind.    He  was  treating  the  struggle 
for  power  as  if  it  had  personal  application  to  himself, 
claiming  that  as  aliens  alone  understood  domestic  politics, 
they  alone  should  be  entrusted  with  their  control.    He  too 
was  an  alien,  an  Irishman.     Gathering  ammunition  from 
Collison's  and  Lord  Parkstone's  admissions  of  failure,  he 
instanced  the  age-long  misgovernment  of  Ireland,  and  with 
the  memory  of  Wilmot's  speech  fresh  in  their  minds,  some 
at  least  of  his  audience  felt  that  their  unimaginative  lack  of 
Sympathy  had  been  responsible  for  the  earlier  tragedy,  and 
that  they  owed  it  to  Denys  to  wipe  out  the  memory  of  the 
past.    Sheila  alone  saw  in  the  gentle  reproof  ominous  warn- 
ing of   future  vengeance.     It  is  easier  to  hold  a  public 
meeting  than   a   dinner-table:   the   first  has   only   to   re- 
member not  to  shuffle  its  feet ;  the  second  has  to  forget  to 
eat.    Denys  held  them  until  the  depression  of  the  day  had 
once  more  been   forgotten;  then  with  a  smiling  apology 
for  monopolising  the  conversation,  he  broke  the  spell  and 
turned  to  Sheila  with  the  whispered  question  whether  he 
had  sufficiently  obeyed  his  instructions  and  taken  the  minds 
of  the  party  off  Maurice's  impending  speech.     There  was 
something  cynically  defiant  in  his  conscious  ability  to  charm 
the  ears  of  his  hearers  at  will  and  she  only  replied  with  a 


232  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

nod.     Sir  William  murmured  to  his  neighbour  that  Denys 
would  go  far  in  politics. 

"Have  you  any  idea  where  he  will  stop?"  asked  Collison, 
sceptical  and  unconvinced. 

Dessert  had  come  to  an  end  and  the  cigars  had  been 
handed  round  by  the  time  the  political  discussion  flickered 
to  extinction.  The  ladies  were  waiting  for  Lady  Park- 
stone  to  give  the  signal  for  retirement,  the  men  talked 
monosyllabically  until  the  time  should  come  for  a  change 
of  position  and  the  opening  of  new  conversational  suits. 
Then  an  expectant  silence  fell  upon  the  table  and  one 
pair  of  eyes  after  another  turned  in  the  direction  of  Mau- 
rice Weybrook.  Denys  took  the  opportunity  of  studying 
the  expression  on  his  neighbours'  faces.  Daphne  was  sit- 
ting with  her  eyes  turned  to  her  lap,  nervously  fingering 
the  hem  of  her  napkin;  Sheila  was  looking  at  Maurice 
with  a  slight  smile  born  of  confidence  or  perhaps  of  despair; 
Lady  Parkstone  struggled  with  the  self-consciousness  of 
one  who  anticipates  panegyric  and  yet  has  to  affect  sur- 
prise; her  husband  fidgeted  unemotionally  with  a  pair  of 
nut-crackers.  Anxiety  struggled  with  resignation  on  Sir 
Williams's  face;  Melbourne  was  apprehensive  of  emotion 
and  undisguisedly  bored ;  the  other  guests  knew  nothing  of 
the  turn  Maurice's  speech  was  expected  to  take  and  could 
only  imitate  the  dumb  expectancy  of  the  initiated.  They 
were  merely  conscious  of  an  uncomfortable  tension  which 
was  at  length  broken  when  Maurice  scrambled  to  his  feet 
and  stood  waiting  for  the  dessert-knives  to  cease  their  tat- 
too of  encouragement. 

"Speech!"  called  Melbourne  as  the  pause  lengthened 
unduly. 

"God,  no!  I'm  not  going  to  make  a  speech."  He  spoke 
a  little  thickly  and  his  face  was  flushed  a  brighter  red  than 
the  normal.  "I  should  have  thought  you'd  had  all  the 
speeches  you  wanted  these  last  few  days.  Meanin'  no  dis- 


A  DISCREET  SPEECH  233 

respect  to  you,  Denys,  old  son,"  he  added  with  affability. 
"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  before  we  split  up  to  smoke  and 
do  whatever  the  ladies  do  do  when  we're  smokin',  I  want 
to  propose  two  toasts.  First  of  all,  there's  Daphne,  it's  her 
birthday  and  her  comin'-of-age."  He  paused  and  caught 
Sheila's  eye,  then  went  quickly  on:  "And  then  there's 
Denys,  our  new  member,  and  a  jolly  creditable  member 
too.  You  know  all  about  'em  both,  so  I  needn't  tell  you, 
and  you  see  I'm  no  great  shakes  at  speech-makin',  so  the 
less  you  have  of  it  the  better  you'll  like  it,  I'm  thinkin'. 
Ladies  and  gentlemen!  Lady  Daphne  Grayling  and  Mr. 
Denys  Play  fair,  M.P.  Daphne,  here's  to  us!  Denys,  I 
looks  towards  you." 

For  an  instant  the  silence  of  stupefaction  reigned  over 
half  the  room.  Then  Sheila  rose  up,  pushed  her  chair 
quietly  back  and  raised  her  glass. 

"Dear  old  Daphne,"  she  said  with  affectionate  delibera-^ 
tion.  "Many,  many  happy  returns  of  the  day !  Denys,  the 
best  of  luck !  And  don't  forget  to  invite  me  to  your  first 
reception  in  Downing  Street." 

The  toast  was  taken  up  first  by  those  guests  who  had 
expected  nothing  and  were  surprised  by  nothing.  Then 
the  more  intimate  friends  and  members  of  the  family 
joined  in,  until  Daphne  and  Denys  alone  remained  seated, 
bowing  their  acknowledgments.  At  length,  after  a  half- 
hearted attempt  on  the  part  of  the  political  agent  to  make 
Daphne  return  thanks,  Lady  Parkstone  rustled  out  of  her 
chair  and  prepared  to  convoy  her  charges  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

Sir  William  moved  into  the  seat  vacated  by  Sheila  and 
set  himself  to  head  the  conversation  off  any  discussion  of 
Maurice's  behaviour. 

"I  was  greatly  interested,  Denys,  by  what  you  were 
saying  about  Dizzy,"  he  began  in  clear  and  penetrating 
tones.  "I  remember  once — I  must  have  been  quite  a  young 


234  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

man  at  the  time — I  was  staying  with  him  at  Hughenden, 
and  he  told  me.  .  ,  ." 


CHAPTER  XII 

MAURICE  MAKES  A  LESS  DISCREET  SPEECH 

"Answer  me,  Trilby!" 
"God  forgive  me,  yesl" 

Du  MAURIEE:  "TRILBY." 

"AREN'T  you  taking  this  one,  Lady  Daphne?"  asked  Jack 
Melbourne  as  he  arranged  his  button-hole  and  cooled  him- 
self in  the  draught  of  an  electric  fan  playing  over  a 
draped  ice-block.  Like  an  Israelite  spy,  he  had  paid  a 
preliminary  visit  to  the  supper-room  and  returned  to  re- 
port a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey.  "If  not,  may 
I  have  it?" 

"I'm  supposed  to  be  dancing  this  with  Maurice,  only  I 
don't  know  where  he  is.  I  think  I'd  better  give  him  a  mo- 
ment or  two  longer,  if  you  don't  mind ;  he's  taking  me  in  to 
supper." 

"Well,  let  me  be  useful  and  find  him  for  you.  Denys, 
will  you  see  where  Maurice  is  ?  He's  keeping  Lady  Daphne 
waiting!"  Having  demonstrated  his  powers  of  vicarious 
assistance,  Jack  produced  a  cigarette  case  and  prepared 
to  get  up  strength  and  appetite  for  a  serious  attack  on  the 
supper. 

"Have  you  seen  anything  of  Sheila?"  asked  Denys  as 
he  joined  them.  "I'm  due  for  supper  with  her  and  she's 
disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"Find  one  and  you'll  find  both,"  said  Jack,  "they  went 
into  hiding  about  half  an  hour  ago.  In  the  perfect  state 
hunting-men  won't  be  allowed  in  the  same  room  as  people 

235 


23 6  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

who  can  dance:  they  make  a  point  of  following  the  line 
of  most  resistance.  Look  at  the  way  that  fellow  takes 
his  jumps!  C'est  magnifique,  mais  ce  n'est  pas  le  valse. 
Now  he's  going  to  take  the  'cello.  He's  down!  No,  he 
isn't,  only  a  long  stagger.  I  expect  Maurice  and  Miss 
Farling  are  binding  up  each  other's  wounds;  they  were 
cannoned  by  that  spirited  boy  over  there,  to  my  certain 
knowledge.  Shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  savaged  them 
into  the  bargain.  If  I  find  them  I'll  send  them  along  to 
you." 

"May  I  have  this  with  you  till  they  turn  up,  Daphne?'* 
asked  Denys  when  they  were  alone.  "It's  no  good  looking 
for  them,  because  I've  tried  every  conceivable  place,  so 
I  suggest  we  give  them  till  the  end  of  this  waltz  and  if 
they  haven't  turned  up  by  then  you  must  let  me  take  you 
down." 

As  they  began  to  dance  Denys  recalled  the  question 
which  Sheila  had  asked  before  dinner:  "Isn't  she  worth 
it?  Doesn't  she  look  lovely  to-night?"  He  could  answer 
that  question  now :  he  had  never  seen  her  look  more  beau- 
tiful or  more  unhappy.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  and 
the  absence  of  colour  seemed  to  intensify  the  pallor  of  her 
face  and  enrich  the  deep  brown  of  her  hair  by  contrast. 
The  large  grave  eyes  were  thoughtful  and  unwontedly 
troubled:  the  anticipation  of  some  unknown  disaster  had 
bathed  them  in  shadow  and  dimmed  their  lustre.  He 
noticed  with  surprise  that  the  only  jewellery  she  wore  was1 
the  pendant  he  had  given  her  that  afternoon,  and  the  sight 
filled  him  with  disturbing  wonder  and  uncertainty.  He 
was  as  far  as  ever  from  being  able  to  define  his  feelings 
towards  her.  Down  in  Devonshire  that  summer  he  had 
been  captivated  by  her  pre-Raphaelite  beauty,  flattered  by 
the  interest  and  admiration  she  had  shown  for  his  work; 
above  all,  roused  to  a  sympathetic  pity  by  her  loneliness 
and  monotony  of  existence.  He  had  awakened  one  day 


A  LESS  DISCREET  SPEECH  237 

to  the  consciousness  that  he  was  weakening,  softening, 
growing  tender — behind  his  friend  Maurice's  back,  and 
while  the  informal  engagement  was  still  unbroken.  He 
had  been  glad  that  the  engagement  was  still  there  to  keep 
him  true  to  his  life's  work.  When,  despite  his  intention 
of  remaining  neutral  and  leaving  her  to  deal  with  the  en- 
gagement unadvised,  he  had  found  himself  forced  to 
advise  her,  Lady  Parkstone's  entry  into  the  library  had 
saved  him  for  the  service  of  his  vision  and  spared  him  the 
necessity  of  deciding  what  to  do  if  the  engagement  were 
abortive.  He  had  been  within  sight  of  a  crisis.  He  felt 
sure  that  he  would  have  asked  her  to  marry  him.  The  un- 
reality of  his  crusade  would  have  been  overpowering,  his 
penniless  condition  would  have  been  forgotten.  It  was 
more  than  possible  that  she  would  have  accepted  him; 
she  was  one  of  those  who  give  everything,  and  he  could 
offer  no  repayment,  even  in  love.  As  they  danced  he  was 
conscious  that  the  arm  round  her  waist  was  holding  her 
loosely,  almost  timidly;  her  left  hand  rested  lightly  on 
his  shoulder,  he  barely  touched  the  finger-tips  of  her  right 
hand.  The  attitude  was  symbolical;  he  could  offer  her 
admiration,  worship,  devotion,  but  not  love.  No  other 
woman  had  ever  impressed  him  so  deeply  with  her  own 
purity  and  goodness  or  made  him  feel  so  mean  and  small 
beside  her.  He  was  unwilling  to  lay  hands  on  her  for  fear 
of  breaking,  spoiling,  or  defiling.  Then  the  orchestra  slowed 
their  time  and  his  mind  was  recalled  from  its  wanderings 
by  her  voice. 

"I  haven't  had  a  word  with  you  all  day,"  she  said  as 
they  walked  through  the  hall  towards  the  supper-room. 
"I  want  to  talk  about  the  election  and  congratulate  you. 
I  haven't  done  that  properly  yet."  The  admission  was  an 
unconscious  tribute  to  Lady  Parkstone's  adroitness  in  keep- 
ing them  apart. 

"And  I  haven't  thanked  you  for  getting  me  in." 


23  8  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"I  did  enjoy  it.  I  wonder  if  you're  as  pleased  as  I  am? 
I  don't  suppose  you  are,  because  it's  only  one  step  for  you, 
but  it  was  my  only  opportunity  of  striking  a  blow,  and  if 
nothing  had  come  of  it  I  should  only  have  had  a  failure 
to  look  back  on — afterwards." 

"What  about  this  table?"  asked  Denys.  He  did  not 
want  to  dwell,  or  allow  Daphne  to  dwell,  on  what  "after- 
wards" meant  to  her. 

"Denys,  you'll  have  to  start  very  quietly  and  patiently." 

"I'm  going  to.  Your  grandfather  is  taking  me  abroad 
with  him  next  week  to  recover  from  the  election." 

"Was  it  a  great  strain?  I  suppose  it  must  have  been; 
you're  looking  awfully  pulled  down.  But  when  you  get 
back  you'll  have  to  start  quietly;  you've  frightened  people 
rather,  first  of  all  with  the  book,  and  then  with  one  or  two 
of  the  speeches.  You  heard  Mr.  Collison  at  dinner,  and 
a  lot  of  people  have  said  the  same  thing." 

Denys  listened  in  silence  and  presently  she  went  on : 

"So  many  people — adventurers  they  are — take  up  politics 
just  for  what  they  can  get  out  of  it.  Granddad  says  you'll 
have  to  be  careful  not  to  be  confused  with  them.  He  had 
rather  a  struggle  to  get  you  adopted  as  candidate  and  there 
was  a  lot  of  opposition  in  the  constituency.  They  said 
it  was  selling  the  pass,  and  pandering  to  the  Labour  Party, 
and  why  not  run  a  Socialist  candidate  without  more  ado? 
I  don't  want  to  lecture  you,  but  it  would  be  such  a  pity 
if  you  started  too  violently  and  forfeited  everybody's  con- 
fidence." 

"I  know,  but  I  question  if  it's  possible  to  keep  the 
confidence  of  an  old  Tory  like  Collison  and  the  support  of 
Labour;  if  one  has  to  go,  it  will  be  Collison.  He  has 
wealth  and  position  and  influence,  and  he's  uncommonly 
useful  as  a  supporter,  but  as  a  voter  he's  almost  powerless. 
The  strength  lies  with  Labour." 

"But  a  greater  strength  lies  with  a  union  of  forces." 


A  LESS  DISCREET  SPEECH  239 

"If  you  can  keep  them  united.  I'm  addressing  a  big 
meeting  in  South  London  on  Sunday  night ;  it  will  be  a  test 
case.  We  shall  see  from  Monday's  newspapers  how  I've 
managed  to  hold  the  balance." 

"Hold  it  even,  Denys;  it  means  so  much  to — to  all  your 
friends.  There's  no  need  for  hurry,  you've  got  your  whole 
life  before  you." 

"Yes,  but  one  never  knows  how  long  that  will  be," 
said  Denys,  with  the  memory  of  his  breakdown  on  the 
night  of  the  last  meeting  and  the  consciousness  that  he 
had  been  torn  and  stifled  by  fits  of  coughing  every  day 
since  the  early  spring. 

Their  conversation  turned  to  the  cruise  in  the  Pacific 
which  Sheila  was  going  to  take  in  her  grandfather's  yacht, 
and  they  sat  discussing  it  until  supper  was  over  and  Denys 
had  finished  his  second  cigarette. 

"I  suppose  we  ought  to  be  getting  back  to  the  ball- 
room," said  Daphne.  "There's  still  no  sign  of  our  lost 
partners." 

"If  they  aren't  in  the  ball-room  you'll  have  to  let  me 
go  on  dancing  with  you." 

At  the  door  of  the  supper-room  they  fell  in  at  the 
rear  of  a  returning  satisfied  army  headed  by  Sir  William 
and  Mrs.  Collison.  Lady  Parkstone  followed  with  her 
husband,  and  behind  them  walked  an  undistinguished  mis- 
cellany of  dowagers. 

"Does  Badstow  still  go  in  for  orchids?"  asked  Sir  Wil- 
liam as  they  approached  a  conservatory  door. 

"I  haven't  seen  them  since  the  early  summer,"  said  Mrs. 
Collison,  "but  he  had  a  wonderful  show  then.  If  you're 
interested  in  them,  we  might  go  back  to  the  ball-room 
through  the  conservatory." 

"If  the  door's  not  locked,"  said  Sir  William.  "My 
word,  it's  hot  in  here!"  he  added,  turning  the  handle. 
"Margaret,  we're  going  to  look  at  Badstow's  orchids.  Get 


24o  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

inside  quickly  if  you're  coming;  we  mustn't  let  the  heat 
out." 

Lady  Parkstone,  Mr.  Collison,  two  dowagers,  Daphne, 
Denys,  Melbourne  and  his  partner  and  Lord  Parkstone 
accepted  the  invitation,  and  Sir  William  closed  the  door. 
The  conservatory  ran  round  two  sides  of  the  house,  first 
as  a  long  carpeted  corridor,  with  staging  both  sides  rising 
tier  above  tier  to  a  height  of  ten  or  twelve  feet:  then  it 
turned  the  corner  of  the  house  and  broadened  into  a  square 
winter  garden  with  dwarf  orange  trees  ranged  in  tubs 
round  the  walls.  An  oblong  bath  had  been  sunk  into  the 
mosaic  pavement,  and  a  slender  fountain,  copied  from  the 
Alcazar,  gave  forth  the  gently  restful  sound  of  ceaselessly 
splashing  water.  Two  or  three  chairs  and  a  divan  were 
distributed  under  the  towering  palms  and  there  was  a 
Spanish  inlaid  table  on  which  Lord  Badstow  sometimes 
took  his  coffee.  For  the  night  of  the  dance  the  far  door 
communicating  with  the  ball-room  had  been  locked  and  the 
use  of  the  conservatory  interdicted  out  of  consideration 
for  the  orchids. 

Sir  William  and  his  followers  walked  noiselessly  down 
the  corridor;  their  footsteps  made  no  sound  on  the  thick 
carpet.  The  finest  of  the  blooms  were  over  and  called 
for  no  outburst  of  admiration.  Then  the  whole  party 
rounded  the  corner  and  came  to  a  sudden  standstill.  On 
the  far  side  of  the  bath,  and  with  their  backs  turned  to 
the  corridor,  sat  Sheila  and  Maurice,  engaged  in  earnest 
conversation.  One  chair  sufficed  for  their  requirements, 
as  Maurice  had  elected  to  balance  himself  on  the  arm  to 
give  an  effect  of  greater  fervour  to  his  words.  What 
those  words  were  none  of  the  invaders  ever  knew,  but 
they  were  at  liberty  to  draw  their  own  conclusions  from 
Shila's  reply. 

"This  is  all  very  fine,  Maurice,"  she  remarked  in  ac- 
cents of  amusement,  "but  you  seem  to  have  conveniently 


A  LESS  DISCREET  SPEECH  241 

forgotten  that  you're  engaged  to  Daphne  all  the  while." 

Maurice  grunted  and  leant  still  further  into  the  body  of 
the  chair. 

"I  was  hidin'  in  the  smokin'-room  to-day,  to  get  out 
of  her  ladyship's  claws,  when  I  came  across  a  book  that 
rather  fits  the  case.  I've  forgotten  the  party's  name  that 
wrote  it,  but  he  was  uncommon  pithy  in  places.  'In  matri- 
mony to  hesitate  is  often  to  be  saved,'  or  somethin'  of  the 
kind.  I  said,  'Maurice,  young  fellow  my  lad,  that's  you!' 
when  I  read  it." 

Sheila  replied  with  a  ripple  of  laughter  in  which  he 
joined :  then  suddenly  the  laugh  froze  on  his  lips  as  a  half- 
heard  sound  behind  them  caused  him  to  turn  round  and 
face  the  tragic  countenances  of  the  orchid-hunters.  For 
a  moment  there  was  silence;  then  Sheila  turned  to  see 
what  had  struck  Maurice  suddenly  dumb.  The  variety  in 
facial  expression  was  bewildering.  First  of  all  came  Lady 
Parkstone  with  burning  eyes  and  set  mouth,  baffled  rage 
deeply  imprinted  in  every  rigid  line,  then  Sir  William  and 
Lord  Parkstone,  helplessly  amazed,  then  Daphne  with  an 
expression  of  incredulous  horror.  Denys  stood  in  the 
background,  contemptuous  and  angry.  Jack  Melbourne 
pressed  forward  with  a  look  of  eager  and  undisguised  de- 
light. Mrs.  Collison  and  the  dowagers  were  uncertain 
whether  to  be  shocked  or  amused. 

Sheila  glanced  rapidly  from  face  to  face  and  then  nerved 
herself  for  an  effort.  It  was  an  occasion  for  sheer  au- 
dacity. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  all  finished  supper," 
she  said  with  a  smile  of  untroubled  innocence.  "Denys, 
I  must  apologise  for  cutting  you;  we  had  no  idea  it  was 
so  late.  Come  along,  Maurice,  and  get  me  something  to 
eat  before  it's  all  gone.  I  won't  be  longer  than  I  can 
help,  Denys." 

She  rose  with  a  leisurely  unconcern  that  was  superb.  The 


242  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

sunk  bath  still  divided  her  from  her  aunt,  but  Denys  felt 
he  could  not  answer  for  Lady  Parkstone's  self-control  when 
once  Sheila  came  within  reach.  By  way  of  creating  a  di- 
version he  turned  to  Daphne,  remarking: 

"I  fancy  the  far  door's  locked;  we  shall  have  to  go 
back  the  way  we  came." 

Two  hours  later  the  ball  came  to  an  end.  The  burst- 
ing of  the  storm-cloud  had  been  delayed,  -as  Sheila  and 
Maurice  had  found  it  prudent  not  to  appear  in  public 
again;  but  the  atmosphere  was  highly  charged,  the  scene 
in  the  conservatory  was  hungrily  discussed  in  tittering 
whispers  between  the  dances,  and  Melbourne  brought  all 
the  detailed  knowledge  of  the  eye-witness  to  the  aid  of 
the  imaginative  and  libellous  raconteur.  Every  embellish- 
ment of  the  story  gave  a  further  twist  to  the  rack  on  which 
Sheila's  reputation  lay  stretched.  For  the  rest  of  the 
night  Daphne  and  Denys  were  left  to  dance  together  un- 
molested. As  they  left  the  conservatory  he  had  heard  a 
dry,  strangled  sob  and  the  words,  "Sheila,  oh,  anybody  but 
Sheila!"  and  he  was  filled  with  the  same  impotent  wrath 
that  comes  over  a  man  who  is  forced  helplessly  to  watch 
the  ill-treatment  of  a  beautiful  dumb  animal.  She  was 
too  much  overcome  with  the  shock  and  the  humiliation  to 
say  more  than  a  few  words.  Denys  was  too  deeply 
touched  by  her  suffering  to  attempt  consolation.  As  they 
danced  he  could  feel  her  whole  body  trembling,  she  clung 
to  him  for  comfort  or  support  and  her  head  drooped  on 
his  shoulder,  brushing  his  cheek  with  her  hair,  in  the 
extremity  of  weariness  and  shame.  Mechanically  she 
watched  the  last  guests  gulping  hot  soup,  muffling  them- 
selves in  coats  and  scarves,  lighting  cigarettes  and  packing 
themselves  into  their  cars.  Then  with  an  effort  she  re- 
gained her  normal  voice  and  said  good-night  to  Denys  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"I  don't  know  if  I  shall  see  you  in  the  morning,  Denys, 


A  LESS  DISCREET  SPEECH  243 

so   I'll  say  good-bye   now.     Good-night — and  good-bye." 

"Good-night,  Daphne."  He  stood  still  holding  her  hand 
and  struggling  with  an  impulse  which  gripped  and  terrified 
him.  He  was  being  urged  to  say  something  he  did  not 
mean,  something  he  would  ever  afterwards  regret,  some- 
thing that  was  for  the  moment  irresistible.  He  could  not 
leave  her  without  another  word;  the  large,  wistful  brown 
eyes  would  not  close  that  night,  and  when  morning  came 
they  would  look  out  on  an  inhospitable  world  wherein  her 
friend  had  failed  her  when  everything  had  conspired  to 
make  his  assistance  possible,  easy,  and  welcome.  There 
was  a  gentle  effort  to  withdraw  the  hand  he  was  holding, 
and  he  looked  up  to  find  her  gazing  at  him  in  wonder. 
Then  with  his  eyes  open  to  the  madness  of  his  action  he 
teased  to  struggle  and  listened  passively  to  a  voice  which 
issued  from  his  lips  but  spoke  words  he  would  have  given 
his  life  to  keep  back. 

"Good  night.  .  .  .  But  we  needn't  say  good-bye,  need 
we?  Not  now.  It's  a  horrid,  cruel  word,  Daphne;  don't 
let's  use  it." 

Her  eyes  remained  fixed  on  his  for  the  moment  of 
dawning  consciousness:  then  her  left  hand  stole  up  to  her 
throat  and  at  last  there  came  a  little  cry  between  laughter 
and  tears. 

"Oh,  Denys,  do  you  mean  it?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  for  ever  and  ever." 

A  party  of  men  headed  by  Jack  crossed  the  hall  en 
route  for  the  supper-room.  Daphne  held  out  her  hand 
to  Denys  as  they  passed,  then  turned  and  ran  up  the  stairs, 
leaving  him  to  walk  dazedly  into  the  library. 

"Oysters  always  make  me  feel  very  religious,"  said  Jack 
Melbourne  to  the  men  of  the  house-party  whom  he  was 
regaling  with  a  final  supper  and  an  unceasing  discourse. 
"It's  only  when  you've  eaten  a  couple  of  dozen  that  you 


244  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

appreciate  the  truth  of  the  saying,  'The  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  is  within  you.'  Denys,  come  and  have  beer  and 
devilled  bones.  Ordinarily  I  should  recommend  poached 
eggs  and  a  Welsh  rabbit,  but  in  the  great  crises  of  life 
nothing  less  than  a  devilled  bone  will  support  you." 

"I'm  not  hungry,  thanks." 

"Of  all  reasons  for  eating,  hunger  is  the  most  com- 
monplace: it  is  the  excuse  of  a  bourgeois  mind.  Take  a 
poached  egg  to  put  under  your  pillow.  I  want  to  tell  you 
what  I  saw  in  the  conservatory." 

"I  saw  it  too ;  you  needn't  bother." 

"You  didn't  see  what  I  did.  You've  no  journalistic 
flair,  no  imagination.  I've  been  brooding  over  all  the  pos- 
sibilities of  the  scene  till  I've  worked  up  a  very  dramatic 
picture.  First  of  all  there  was  little  Sheila  Fading.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  dry  up,  Jack.  You've  been  hard  at  work  on  her 
reputation  for  the  last  two  hours;  it's  earned  a  rest." 

Jack  turned  to  the  others  with  a  rueful  shrug  of  the 
shoulders. 

"Wasted  talent,  my  friends!  A  great  public  speaker, 
a  man  of  sonorous  periods  and  moving  eloquence,  but  for 
la  vie  intime,  la  chronique  scandaleuse,  the  on  dit  of  daily 
existence  he  has  no  aptitude.  He  will  never  be  a  con- 
versationalist, he  will  never — Denys,  if  you  won't  eat,  you 
might  at  least  have  the  decency  to  smoke.  Don't  lose  all 
your  self-respect  just  because  you're  a  member  of  Par- 
liament: it's  a  thing  that  might  happen  to  anyone." 

Denys  wandered  over  to  a  table  by  the  window  in  search 
of  matches.  He  did  not  want  to  eat  or  drink  or  talk:  he 
wanted  to  slink  away  by  himself  and  feed  on  his  anger  and 
amazement  at  what  he  had  done.  There  was  a  vague  con- 
sciousness in  his  mind  that  he  had  committed  an  irrevoca- 
ble act  of  sheer  insanity  which  would  alter  his  whole 
course  of  life  and  stultify  his  previous  existence.  He 
wanted  the  satisfaction  of  plumbing  the  depths  of  his  folly 


A  LESS  DISCREET  SPEECH  2451 

and  measuring  the  completeness  of  his  downfall;  and  as 
long  as  Jack  Melbourne  remained  out  of  bed,  volubly 
eager  to  describe  and  embroider  the  events  of  the  evening 
he  felt  bound  in  honour  to  stand  by  and  protect  Sheila's 
name;  from  his  wanton  attack.  Lighting  his  cigar,  he 
looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  cheerless,  frost-bound 
garden.  A  full  moon  was  shining  on  the  empty  snow- 
spread  flower-beds,  a  bitter  east  wind  caught  up  and  played 
with  the  rustling  dead  leaves  that  lay  scattered  over  the 
shining  flagstones  of  the  terrace:  it  was  the  coldest  night 
of  the  year.  Then  his  eye  fell  upon  something  white  which 
fluttered  in  the  breeze  at  the  head  of  a  flight  of  stone 
steps:  it  was  a  girl's  dress.  The  shadow  of  the  house  fell 
over  that  end  of  the  terrace  and  made  identification  im- 
possible, but  he  had  little  doubt  that  it  was  Sheila  and 
that  she  was  adding  gratutitous  pneumonia  to  her  other 
follies.  With  a  feeling  of  personal  grievance  that  he  had 
ever  been  brought  in  contact  with  a  person  who  seemed  to 
live  for  the  sole  purpose  of  exasperating  him,  he  hurried 
out  of  the  smoking-room,  gathered  a  cloak  from  the  hall 
and  joined  her  on  the  terrace. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here,  Sheila?"  he  asked 
in  a  tone  of  irritation.  "You'll  kill  yourself  in  this 
wind." 

"Hullo,  Denys !"  All  the  fire  had  gone  out  of  her  black 
eyes;  she  turned  to  him  with  the  listless  indifference  of 
one  who  is  too  numbed  and  bruised  to  heed  any  further 
beating.  "It  takes  a  lot  more  than  this  to  kill  me.  I'm 
not  trying  seriously." 

"Put  this  cloak  on  and  come  back  to  the  house.  You 
ought  to  be  in  bed." 

"I'm  not  ready  for  bed  yet.  I'm  like  the  unwise  king 
who  went  to  war  first  and  counted  the  cost  after- 
wards." 

"I  hope  you  enjoy  the  reckoning."     He  had  not  meant 


246  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

to  use  the  whip,  but  his  earlier  anger  got  the  better  of 
him. 

"I  do.  There's  only  one  thing  worse  than  losing  a  battle, 
and  that's  winning  one.  I  should  think  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington probably  said  that.  It  sounds  like  him.  Denys, 
your  friend  Mr.  Melbourne  has  a  pleasant  flow  of  lan- 
guage." 

"Oh,  damn  my  friend  Mr.  Melbourne,"  Denys  burst 
out.  "Come  out  of  this  wind,  Sheila,  and  don't  behave  like 
a  spoilt  child  of  ten." 

"Mr.  Melbourne's  very  instructive.  He  had  all  the  fun 
of  overhearing  Maurice  and  me  in  the  conservatory,  so 
I've  paid  myself  back  by  listening  to  him.  I  suppose  you'll 
all  talk  like  him  now." 

"Then  you're  wrong." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  include  you.  I  warned  you  beforehand, 
and  besides,  you  don't  think  I'm  accountable  for  my  ac- 
tions. But  the  others!  Father  Time's  taking  me  away 
by  the  first  train  in  the  morning;  he's  stood  a  good  deal 
from  me,  but  he  couldn't  stand  that.  Poor  old  Father 
Time!  he  could  hardly  speak.  And  Uncle  Herbert  and 
Aunt  Margaret!  You  can  imagine  what  that  was  like. 
It  was  their  fault,  they  brought  it  on  themselves  by  allow- 
ing Maurice  ever  to  have  anything  to  do  with  Daphne." 
Her  voice  quavered  and  sank.  "And  Daphne  says  she 
never  wants  to  see  me  or  speak  to  me  again !" 

"And  what  do  you  think  you've  gained  by  all  this?" 
asked  Denys,  still  unappeased  but  conscious  that  his  re- 
sentment was  languishing  for  want  of  a  victim.  In  the 
castigation  of  Sheila  he  had  been  forestalled. 

"Oh,  a  good  deal.  I've  won  all  along  the  line.  Daphne 
won't  marry  Maurice  now."  She  paused  and  looked  away 
from  him.  "And  I  'fancy  I've  spiked  your  gun,  my 
friend." 

"Meaning  by  that?' 


247 

"I  saw  the  pretty  way  you  and  Daphne  said  good-night 
to  each  other.  You'll  find  your  power  of  mischief  is  a  good 
deal  hampered." 

"Wait  till  you  read  Monday's  papers,"  said  Denys  ob- 
stinately through  set  teeth.  "I'm  addressing  South  London 
workmen  on  Sunday  night  and  I'm  going  to  let  my- 
self go." 

"Bah!  you  daren't.  You're  afraid  of  hurting  Daphne." 

"What  do  I  care  what  Daphne  ..."  he  began. 

"Oh,  hush,  hush!  That's  blasphemy,  and  it's  rank  in- 
gratitude to  me,  which  is  a  lot  worse,  after  all  I've  done 
for  you." 

"Sheila,  do  you  imagine  I'm  in  love  with  Daphne?" 

"Denys,  I  do." 

"Then  you're  wrong.  I'm  no  more  in  love  with  her 
than  you  are  with  Maurice,  and  the  high  gods  alone 
know  how  I'm  going  to  escape  from  the  mess  you've  got 
me  into." 

"Don't  talk  such  nonsense !"  Her  voice  became  suddenly 
pleading.  "You  do  love  her,  you  know  you  do.  Why, 
the  first  time  you  met  her,  at  their  dance  in  town,  you 
came  and  raved  to  me  about  her.  And  down  in  Devon- 
shire it  was  the  same,  only  you  thought  you  couldn't  do 
anything  till  Maurice  was  out  of  the  way.  I've  got  him  out 
of  the  way  for  you ;  there's  absolutely  nothing  to  stop  you. 
Aunt  Margaret — she  won't  like  it  because  she'd  set  her 
heart  on  Maurice,  but  Daphne's  of  age  and  can  do  what 
she  likes.  Oh,  don't  be  silly !  When  she  comes  to  you.  .  .  . 
What  are  you  made  of,  Denys?  It's  not  flesh  and  blood. 
What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know !"  He  clenched  his  hands  in  helpless 
vexation  till  the  nails  tore  the  skin.  "Clay  and  ditch- 
water,  that's  why  I'm  afraid  of  her.  She's  made  of  some- 
thing different;  I  could  never  rise  to  her  heights.  I'm  of 
the  earth,  earthy,  and  Daphne's — I  don't  know  what  she  is 


248  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

or  where  she  comes  from.  I  never  realised  what  a  mean, 
pitiable,  shameful  thing  a  man  could  be  till  I  saw  my 
own  dwarfed  reflection  in  those  eyes  of  hers.  Oh,  Sheila, 
why  did  you  do  it?  I  suppose  it  was  fair  game  to  put 
a  spoke  in  Maurice's  wheel,  though  you  needn't  have  done 
it  in  a  way  that  hurt  Daphne  as  much  as  you  hurt  her 
to-night.  Oh  yes,  and  I  suppose  it  was  fair  game  to  try 
and  put  me  out  of  action.  You  haven't,  but  there  was  no 
reason  why  you  shouldn't  try.  But  I'm  hanged  if  it  was 
fair  game  to  make  Daphne  suffer.  You  ought  to  have 
counted  that  before  you  started  meddling  with  destiny  for 
your  private  amusement." 

She  turned  on  him  with  flashing  eyes. 

"Oh,  you  mean  little  worm!  You  think  I'd  endure 
what  I've  gone  through  to-night  just  for  amusement,  just 
to  get  my  own  way.  Don't  you?  You  don't  think  I  did 
it  because  I  cared  for  people  or  wanted  to  make  things 
happier  for  them?  You  can't  understand  me  disinterestedly 
trying  to  do  a  good  turn  to  a  person  without  any  thought 
of  reward.  What  do  I  care  for  your  politics?  You'll 
never  harm  me.  I've  just  got  to  let  you  run  for  a  few 
months  and  you'll  kill  yourself.  D'you  think  I  didn't  see 
that  the  first  day  I  met  you?  You're  killing  yourself 
now — d'you  think  I  can't  see  it,  d'you  think  Daphne 
wouldn't  see  it  if  she  weren't  infatuated  about  you?  Why 
do  you  think  I  suggested  your  going  to  Uncle  Herbert? 
Why  do  you  think  I  wanted  you  to  meet  Daphne?" 

"I  honestly  can't  see  what  you  hoped  to  get  out  of  it" 

"Get  out  of  it?  You're  past  praying  for,  Denys."  She 
stamped  her  foot  and  panted  with  anger.  "When  I  met 
you  I  was  amused  by  you  and  rather  liked  you  and  felt 
sorry  for  you.  You  were  lonely  and  ill  and  overworked 
and  thought  you  were  under  a  sort  of  cloud.  I  wanted 
to  get  you  something  to  do  that  you'd  like  and  that  would 
lead  to  bigger  things.  And  I  thought  I'd  bring  you  and 


A  LESS  DISCREET  SPEECH  249 

Daphne  together  to  see  how  you  got  on.  You  got  on  very 
well,  so  well  that  you  quite  forgot  you'd  a  grievance  against 
the  world.  I  knew  you  would;  people  only  feed  on  griev- 
ances when  they've  nothing  better  to  occupy  their  minds, 
and  Daphne  soon  drove  that  nonsense  out  of  the  head. 
Lord!  Why,  I  could  cure  you  of  your  grievances  in  a 
week  if  I  took  the  trouble.  And  now  when  every  ob- 
stacle's cleared  away  and  Daphne's  simply  .  .  .  Denys,  you 
don't  know  how  hard  I've  worked  for  it  and  what  it's 
cost  me.  Remember,  Daphne's  never  going  to  speak  to 
me  again,  and  I  love  her  more  than  anybody  in  the  whole 
world.  Please,  Denys,  I  did  try  to  do  my  best  for  you !" 

He  stared  gloomily  at  the  moonlight  on  the  frozen  pond 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 

"It  would  have  been  better  if  we'd  never  met,  Sheila, 
better  for  Daphne  and  better  for  me.  Yes,  and  after  what 
happened  to-night,  better  for  you  too.  Seven  months' 
work,  and  you've  got  two  people  into  an  impossible  posi- 
tion and  earned  the  reputation  of  a  heartless  flirt  for  your- 
self. Your  intentions  may  have  been  good,  but  I  can't 
congratulate  you  on  the  result." 

"Was  that  meant  for  thanks?" 

"It  wasn't  meant  for  anything:  it  was  just  a  summary 
of  the  situation.  Do  you  want  thanks?" 

"I  don't  want  anything  from  you.  I  never  want  to  see 
you  or  hear  of  you  again." 

"I'm  sorry;  I  was  thinking  of  coming  with  you  and 
your  grandfather  to  the  Riviera.  Is  the  invitation  can- 
celled?" 

"No,  you  can  come  or  not,  as  you  like.  I'm  entirely 
indifferent.  You'll  have  my  grandfather  to  talk  to." 

"Thank  you."  They  had  both  lost  their  tempers,  but  for 
the  moment  neither  perceived  the  absurdity  of  standing 
lightly  clad  in  a  biting  east  wind  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  for  the  purpose  of  exchanging  recriminations. 


250  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Then  Denys  broke  into  a  laugh :  as  Sheila's  anger  had  risen, 
his  own  had  fast  been  dying.  Remembering  the  look  of 
misery  she  had  worn  when  he  first  spoke  to  her,  and  the 
punishments  which  were  still  in  store  when  she  faced  her 
relations  next  day,  he  was  sorry  for  not  having  kept  a 
bridle  on  his  tongue. 

"We  shall  neither  of  us  do  any  good  by  staying  out 
here  any  longer,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  stiff,  blue  fingers. 
"Let's  make  friends  and  forget  what  we've  said  to  each 
other.  I  apologise  for  losing  my  temper  and  I'm  glad  to 
find  someone  else  who  is  of  the  earth,  earthy." 

"Does  that  mean  that  I  satisfy  your  requirements  better 
than  Daphne?  I'm  honoured,  but  the  remark  is  out  of 
place.  You  needn't  waste  your  pretty  ways  on  more  than 
one  person  in  an  evening." 

Denys  gave  up  the  attempt  at  reconciliation  and  they 
entered  the  house  together.  As  they  walked  upstairs  the 
supper-party  emerged  into  the  hall,  and  for  a  moment 
Melbourne's  flow  of  words  was  checked.  Then,  as  they 
reached  the  first  landing,  a  remark  travelled  up  far  beyond 
the  ears  of  those  who  were  intended  to  hear  it.  "She's 
not  lost  much  time,"  was  the  whispered  comment,  and  an 
appreciative  laugh  was  hastily  converted  into  a  cough. 
Sheila  suddenly  caught  Denys  by  the  arm,  and  as  suddenly 
let  go.  "No,  don't  do  anything,"  she  said  in  a  choking 
voice.  "I  deserve  it."  Then  she  hurriedly  opened  her 
bedroom  door,  threw  herself  on  her  bed  without  undressing 
and  cried  herself  to  sleep.  Denys  changed  into  a  smoking 
jacket  and  sat  down  in  front  of  his  fire  to  think  out  the 
future  and  listen  to  Maurice  pacing  up  and  down  in  the 
next  room.  Daphne  alone  was  sleeping  peacefully,  un- 
conscious of  her  neighbours'  wakefulness,  unappreciative 
of  the  irony  with  which  her  happiness  was  flavoured.  She 
owed  everything  to  a  cousin  whom  she  had  said  she  would 
never  see  again,  and  while  Denys  mourned  over  the  failure 


A  LESS  DISCREET  SPEECH  251 

of  his  schemes,  Sheila  was  crying  over  the  success  of 
hers. 

The  following  day  saw  the  resolution  of  the  house-party 
into  its  elements :  there  was  a  marked  preference  for  early 
trains  and  a  universal  unwillingness  to  participate  in  any 
scenes  of  leave-taking.  Sheila  and  her  grandfather  break- 
fasted alone  and  left  the  house  unnoticed.  Lady  Park- 
stone  with  her  husband  and  daughter  made  no  ap- 
pearance until  their  car  was  standing  at  the  door,  and 
then  accomplished  a  hurried  exit  with  a  bare  word  of  fare- 
well for  stray,  embarrassed  visitors  whose  trains  left  later 
in  the  day.  Denys  remained  in  his  room  until  the  middle 
of  the  morning  and  then  returned  to  London  by  himself. 
Jack  Melbourne  alone  was  immovable  until  after  luncheon, 
and  even  he  allowed  himself  to  be  packed  up  and  driven 
away  when  the  bridge-table  which  he  had  organised  in 
the  smoking-room  fell  into  dissolution.  Throughout  the  day 
there  was  neither  sight  nor  sound  of  Maurice :  his  guests  left 
the  house  without  knowing  whether  he  had  preceded  them 
or  was  still  locked  in  his  own  room  brooding  over  the 
events  of  the  previous  evening.  No  one  paid  much  at- 
tention to  his  absence :  for  most  of  the  party  the  play  was 
over  and  the  curtain  rung  down.  Sheila,  Denys  and 
Daphne  were  too  busily  concerned  with  their  private  epi- 
logue to  waste  thought  on  Maurice. 

A  fortnight  later  the  episode  was  beginning  to  be  for- 
gotten, not  through  loss  of  intrinsic  interest,  but  because 
speculation  dried  up  for  want  of  encouragement.  No  one 
knew  what  the  next  development  would  be,  and  the  most 
ingenious  guess-work  went  unrewarded.  Then  one  of 
the  chief  actors  was  called  upon  to  exhume  and  defend 
the  past :  Lord  Badstow,  travelling  night  and  day  from  San 
Remo,  had  arrived  in  Grosvenor  Square  and  invited  his 
nephew  to  explain  his  conduct  and  state  his  intentions  for 
the  future. 


252  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"Ch,  for  pity's  sake  don't  rub  it  in!"  Maurice  ex- 
claimed at  the  end  of  an  hour-long  summing-up.  "I  know 
I've  behaved  like  a  sweep,  but  it  beats  me  what  good  you 
think  you'll  do  by  repeatin'  it  over  and  over  again.  My 
stars!  if  I've  earned  half  the  names  you've  chucked  at  me 
everybody  ought  to  be  praisin'  God  with  a  loud  voice  and 
congratulatin'  Daphne  on  gettin'  rid  of  me." 

"That  is  neither  here  nor  there,  my  dear  Maurice,"  said 
Lord  Badstow  with  purring  precision.  He  was  a  shrivelled 
and  querulous  little  old  man  with  white  side-whiskers  and 
an  asthmatic  wheeze.  For  more  than  twenty  years  the 
thought  that  Maurice  would  succeed  him  had  been  a  source 
of  deep  mortification  which  had  been  gradually  intensified 
by  the  knowledge  that  his  nephew  was  financially  inde- 
pendent and  could  not  be  starved  into  submission.  In  the 
circumstances  it  was  a  little  surprising  that  Maurice  should 
consent  to  be  terrorised  as  much  as  he  was,  and  spoke 
volumes  for  his  uncle's  force  of  character. 

"You  have  got  yourself  into  this  disgraceful  position 
and  I  must  ask  you  how  you  propose  to  get  out  of  it.  I 
do  not  choose  to  have  people  saying  that  a  member  of  my 
family  has  conducted  himself  like  a  blackguard." 

"Look  here,  how  did  you  hear  about  it?" 

"That  again  is  quite  beside  the  point."  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  Jack  Melbourne  was  responsible  for  carrying  the 
news  to  San  Remo.  He  had  started  out  to  spend  a  libel- 
lous few  days  in  Rome  and  had  shared  a  compartment 
on  the  train  de  luxe  as  far  as  Monte  Carlo  with  an  Under 
Secretary  who  was  bound  for  Lord  Badstow's  villa.  Had 
he  known  the  channel  of  information,  Maurice's  embar- 
rassment would  have  been  increased.  "The  point  on  which 
I  desire  your  undivided  attention,  Maurice,  is  this.  You 
have  behaved  scandalously  to  Lady  Daphne,  you  have 
brought  discredit  on  my  name  and  you  have  humiliated 
the  Parkstones,  who  are  old  and  valued  friends  of  mine. 


A  LESS  DISCREET  SPEECH  253 

What  do  you  propose  to  do?  I  must  beg  you  to  find  an 
answer  without  unnecessary  delay,  as  my  health  will  not 
permit  of  my  remaining  in  England  later  than  to-morrow 
morning.  I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will  cease  fidgeting 
with  that  paper-knife." 

Maurice  dropped  the  knife  with  a  clatter,  picked  up  a 
pen  and  dropped  that  quickly. 

"What  in  Heaven's  name  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he 
growled.  "I  wrote  to  Daphne  and  apologised.  Had  the 
letter  returned  unopened:  that  was  her  ladyship's  doing, 
I'll  be  bound.  Then  I  called :  'Not  at  home.'  When  Would 
she  be  at  home?  She  wouldn't  be  at  home  to  me,  so 
that  finished  that.  I  tried  to  get  hold  of  the  Farlings 
before  they  went  away.  Not  much  change  there;  the  old 
man  was  like  a  lump  of  ice,  and  Sheila  wouldn't  see  me. 
I  like  that,  after  the  way  .  .  ." 

"I  think  we  are  wandering  from  the  point,  Maurice." 

"Well,  damn  it,  she  was  as  much  to  blame  as  I  was, 
and  now  she  won't  speak  to  me."  He  stopped  with  an 
expression  of  grievance  on  his  face.  "If  any  of  you  would 
tell  me  what  to  do  I'd  do  it.  But  you  don't.  You  just  sit 
and  badger  me  till  you're  out  of  breadth,  and  when  you've 
got  your  second  wind  you  start  in  and  badger  me  again." 

Lord  Badstow  rose  up  and  rang  the  bell.  "I  do  not 
think  we  can  profitably  continue  the  conversation  while  you 
are  in  your  present  frame  of  mind." 

"Same   idea   struck  me,"   murmured   Maurice   sullenly. 

"The  next  time  we  meet  I  expect  to  hear  that  you  have 
taken  every  step  in  making  reparation  to  the  Park- 
stones." 

"And  you  take  jolly  good  care  not  to  tell  me  how  to 
do  it.  That's  what's  so  helpful.  Good-bye,  I'm  going  to 
toddle  round  to  Denys  Play  fair  to  see  if  he's  got  any  ideas. 
He's  the  only  living  soul  I've  had  a  civil  word  from  since 
this  business  started." 


254  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"I  can  well  believe!  it.  He  will  be  a  most  suitable 
adviser." 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  him?"  asked  Maurice, 
stung  by  his  uncle's  sarcastic  tone. 

"I  have  never  had  the  honour  of  meeting  him,  so  I  can 
only  judge  by  what  I  read,  particularly  by  the  account  of  a 
speech  he  delivered  at  Lambeth  a  few  days  ago." 

"Don't  know  anything  about  that,  but  he  does  have  the 
decency  not  to  tell  me  I'm  a  forsaken  sweep  in  every  sen- 
tence he  speaks.  That's  somethin'  of  a  consolation  these 
hard  times." 


CHAPTER  XIII 


AN  UNPOSTED  LETTER  » 

"And  sometimes,  by  still  harder  fate, 
The  lovers  meet,  but  meet  too  late. 

Thy  heart  is  mine! — True,  true!  ah,  true! 
Then,  love,  thy  hand! — Ah  no!  adieu!" 

MATTHEW  AKNOLD:  "Too  LATE." 

AT  four  o'clock  the  following  afternoon  Maurice  walked 
round  to  Buckingham  Gate  to  seek  counsel  and  consola- 
tion of  Denys.  A  private  car  was  drawn  up  opposite  the 
door,  and  on  reaching  the  flat  he  discovered  a  small  girl 
engaged  in  conversation  with  Denys'  servant.  Her  face 
was  familiar,  but  a  moment  passed  before  he  identified 
her  as  Melbourne's  neice,  Margery,  one  of  his  uncle's 
youngest  neighbours  in  Riversley  and  a  well-known  figure 
at  every  home  meet  of  Collison's  hounds.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  long  astrachan  coat  with  muff  and  round  cap  to 
match,  and  her  small  face  wore  an  expression  of  disap- 
pointment. 

"If  you're  looking  for  Uncle  Denys,  you  won't  find  him," 
she  informed  Maurice.  "He's  away,  out  of  England,  and 
they  don't  know  when  he'll  be  back.  Of  course  he's  not 
my  uncle  really,  but  he  won't  let  me  call  him  Mr.  Playfair, 
and  I  can't  call  him  Denys,  so  I  call  him  Uncle  Denys  in- 
stead. Hallo!  why,  it's  Mr.  Weybrook!  I  didn't  see  who 
you  were.  You've  forgotten  me." 

"Not  I,  Margery,"  said  Maurice  genially.  "But  this  is  a 

255 


256  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

bad  business  about  Denys.  Where's  he  gone  to?"  he  went 
on  to  the  man. 

"He  went  away  ten  days  ago  in  Sir  William  Farling's 
yacht,  sir.  He  was  going  to  the  Mediterranean  but  couldn't 
say  when  he  would  be  back,  and  didn't  leave  any  address 
for  his  letters." 

"Oh,  well,  the  Parkstones  will  know  where  he  is,  Mar- 
gery, if  it's  anything  that  matters." 

"It's  nothing  important,  but  it's  rather  sickening  not 
finding  him.  I  only  got  back  from  school  yesterday — we 
broke  up  early  with  mumps — and  Uncle  Denys  always  said 
I  was  to  come  and  have  tea  with  him  and  he  would  always 
be  at  home.  And  now  the  first  time  I  come  he's  away. 
I  call  it  a  jolly  shame." 

"And  meantime  you're  goin'  hungry?  This  must  be  seen 
to,  Margery.  I'm  in  the,  same  boat,  so  I  know  the  old 
feelin'.  Why  shouldn't  you  come  and  have  tea  with  me? 
Choose  your  own  place." 

"We-ell."  She  considered  the  proposal  with  her  head 
on  one  side.  "The  only  thing  is,  mother  sent  me  round  in 
the  car  and  said  I  was  to  come  straight  back  if  Uncle 
Denys  wouldn't  have  me." 

"We'll  send  the  car  back  with  a  message  that  we're  havin' 
tea  at  Rumpelmayer's.  She  won't  mind,  Margery;  if 
she  does  she  can  ring  up  and  I'll  bring  you  home  at 
once." 

On  these  terms  the  alliance  was  concluded,  the  car  de- 
spatched with  the  tidings  and  Maurice  and  Margery  set 
off  on  foot  across  the  park.  Maurice  was  not  particularly 
fond  of  children,  but  his  resources  were  limited,  and  the 
last  few  days  had  been  passed  in  such  loneliness  that  the 
sound  of  any  voice  was  welcome.  He  cast  about  for  a 
conversational  opening. 

"What  have  you  been  doin'  with  yourself  since  I  saw 
you  last?" 


AN  UNPOSTED  LETTER  257 

"School  most  of  the  time.  I  was  down  at  Riversley  in 
the  holidays." 

"Not  started  huntin'  yet?" 

"I'm  going  to,  at  Christmas.  I  say,  who's  going  to  be 
the  new  master?" 

"Dunno,  I'm  sure?" 

"Mother  said  she  heard  you  were  going  to  be." 

"I  thought  of  it,  but  I  shan't  have  the  time.  Jove,  but 
it  would  have  been  good  fun,"  he  added  regretfully. 

"What  are  you  doing?  I  mean,  why  won't  you  have 
the  time?  I  didn't  know  you  did  anything." 

"No  more  I  did,  till  the  summer.  Then  I  started  to  do 
sojne  work — down  in  the  East-end — and  I've  taken  it  up 
again  this  week.  It's  a  pretty  fair  sweat,  I  don't  mind 
tellin'  you." 

"Why  d'you  do  it?" 

"Lord  knows.  I  s'pose  we  all  of  us  have  to  do  things 
we  don't  like  without  knowin'  why.  Even  you,  Margery? 
We're  just  told  it's  good  for  us.  Aren't  you  ever  told 
that?" 

"Oh  yes.  Mother's  always  saying  that,  and  I'm  to  wait 
till  I'm  older  and  then  I  shall  see  why  I  had  to  do  it.  I 
thought  it  was  different  with  grown-ups'." 

"It  isn't." 

"But  they  can't  make  you." 

"Oh  yes,  they  can." 

"How?" 

Maurice  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Dunno.  It's  like  eat- 
in'  peas  with  a  knife — no  law  against  it,  free  country  and 
so  forth,  but  people  don't  like  to  see  it.  Same  here.  Free 
country,  I  could  hunt  'em,  but  it  'ud  mean  goin'  against  a 
girl  I  want  to  oblige.  And  I  never  want  to  set  foot  in 
that  beastly  East-end  again,  but  every  mornin'  down  I  go 
just  the  same,  'cos  I  think  she'd  like  it." 

"Who  is  she?" 


25 8  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"Ah,  that's  tellin',"  said  Maurice,  awakening  to  the  fact 
that  he  had  been  thinking  aloud. 

Margery  summed  up  with  the  deliberate  emphasis  of 
childhood. 

"Well,  it's  jolly  rough  luck  on  you,  and  I  think  she's 
rather  a  pig  to  make  you." 

"Oh,  no,  she  isn't,"  said  Maurice  gently.  "An'  she  doesn't 
even  know  I'm  doin'  it." 

They  had  crossed  the  park  and  were  standing  on  the 
curb  outside  Marlborough  House  waiting  for  the  stream 
of  traffic  along  Pall  Mall  and  up  St.  James's  Street  to 
abate  sufficiently  to  allow  of  their  crossing.  "Barrin'  Black- 
friars,  this  is  the  most  dangerous  street  in  London,"  re- 
marked Maurice.  "Now  then,  Margery,  here's  our  chance ; 
give  us  your  hand."  With  one  eye  on  a  large  car  which 
was  bearing  down  on  them,  they  stepped  off  the  pavement 
and  walked  quickly  in  the  direction  of  Rumpelmayer's. 
Then  Margery  came  to  a  standstill  with  the  words:  "Stop 
a  bit,  I've  dropped  my  brolly."  As  she  stooped  to  pick  it 
up,  she  glanced  past  her  escort  and  saw  the  car  within  six 
feet  of  them.  With  a  cry  of  terror  she  jumped  forward, 
hesitated,  and  then  tried  to  run  back.  Maurice  seized  her 
by  the  hand  and  swung  her  at  arm's  length  out  of  danger 
as  the  driver  applied  both  brakes  with  all  his  power.  Then 
he  tried  to  jump  after  her.  It  was  too  late,  the  car  was, 
almost  touching  him,  and  as  he  jumped  the  mud-guard 
caught  him  in  the  back  and  flung  him  head  foremost  on  to 
the  pavement.  Margery  scrambled  to  her  knees  in  time  to 
see  a  twisted,  motionless  figure  lying  with  its  head  bathed 
in  blood;  then  a  shouting,  excited  crowd  sprang  mirac- 
ulously up  between  them,  a  policeman  loomed  head  and 
shoulders  above  the  rest,  a  terrified  chauffeur  protested 
that  he  was  not  to  blame  for  the  accident,  while  the  white- 
faced  owner  forced  his  way  through  the  crowd,  picked 
Margery  up  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  back  into  the  car. 


AN  UNPOSTED  LETTER  259 

For  a  few  dazed  moments  there  was  a  hubbub  of  questions 
and  answers,  then  an  ambulance  appeared  and  Maurice  was 
lifted  inside  it. 

"Tell  me  where  you  live,  dear,"  said  the  owner  of  the 
car. 

"Eaton —  No,  take  me  to  Lord  Parkstone;  I  must  see 
him." 

With  her  face  buried  in  his  coat,  and  gripping  his  hand 
with  both  her  own,  Margery  was  driven  to  Berkeley 
Square.  At  the  door  she  got  out  and  the  owner  drove  off 
to  St.  George's  Hospital,  with  a  promise  to  return  later 
and  report  progress.  Margery  rang  the  bell  and  demanded 
to  see  Lord  Parkstone. 

"He  is  engaged  at  the  moment,  miss,"  said  the  footman. 
"What  name  shall  I  say?" 

"Oh,  but  I  can't  help  that,  I  must  see  him.  Where  is 
he?"  She  pushed  past  the  man  and  opened  a  door  at  ran- 
dom: it  was  the  dining-room.  "Where  is,  he?  Oh,  do 
tell  me  where  he  is!"  she  cried  hysterically,  running  down 
the  passage  and  trying  another  handle.  The  astonished 
footman  made  an  attempt  to  bar  the  way,  but  it  was  too 
late,  and  all  he  could  do  was  to  follow  the  child  into  his 
master's  presence  and  stand  apologetically  at  the  door,  fram- 
ing an  explanation  of  the  unwonted  act  of  sacrilege.  Lord 
Parkstone  was  sitting  at  his  writing-table  with  head  bent 
over  a  pile  of  type-written  letters  which  his  secretary  had 
brought  in.  For  a  moment  he  was  too  absorbed  to  notice 
the  interruption,  then  he  looked  up  to  find  a  small,  white- 
faced  child  standing  at  his  side  with  her  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der and  asking  if  he  were  Lord  Parkstone. 

"I?  Yes,  yes.  Certainly.  That  is  so,"  he  stammered 
in  surprise.  "Excuse  me,  do  I  .  .  .  that  is  to  say,  have 
we  ..." 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  Mr.  Denys  Playfair's  address. 
I've  got  something  I  must  tell  him." 


260  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"Denys  Playfair's  address  ?  He's  abroad.  Let  me  see- 
no,  I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  it.  He  was  going  to  be  at 
Monte  Carlo  at  the  beginning  of  the  week,  but  I  don't 
know  how  soon  they  were  going  to  start  back.  I  don't 
think  I  can  help  you." 

"Oh!"  Her  face  fell  and  she  seemed  on  the  verge  of 
tears. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  he  exclaimed  hopefully.  "Daphne  may 
know.  Is  Lady  Daphne  in  her  room,  William?" 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"Will  you  ask  her  .  .  .  ?  No,  we'll  go  up  to  her,"  he 
added  with  an  eye  on  the  piled-up  writing-table. 

To  the  footman's  increasing  surprise,  Lord  Parkstone 
took  Margery  by  the  hand  and  led  her  upstairs  to  his 
daughter's  room.  Lady  Daphne  was  sitting  in  an  armchair 
before  the  fire  reading  a  letter  she  had  just  written.  It 
was  addressed  to  Denys,  and  its  composition  had  brought  a 
happy  smile  into  her  eyes.  Ever  since  their  parting  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  at  Riversley  she  had  been  struggling  with 
the  problem  how  she  ought  to  tell  her  parents  what  had 
passed  between  them.  The  news  would  entail  opposition, 
though  the  opposition  would  eventually  be  overcome:  since 
his  debut  in  the  political  world  Densy  was  regarded  with 
a  more  approving  eye  by  both  her  parents.  At  the  same 
time  she  shrank  from  the  prospect  of  opposition.  In  the 
letter  just  written  she  had  procrastinated  and  shelved  re- 
sponsibility. "Tell  granddad,"  she  had  written,  "but  say 
he's  to  keep  it  a  secret  for  the  present.  I'm  sure  he'll  ap- 
prove. And  then  when  you  get  back  we  must  go  and  tell 
father  together.  I  simply  daren't  tell  him  myself,  you 
know  what  a  dreadful  coward  I  am  when  there's  nobody 
to  support  me."  Then  the  letter  had  passed  to  more  im- 
portant things.  The  composition  had  brought  great  peace 
of  mind  to  her,  and  a  reflection  of  her  inner  contentment 
seemed  to  light  up  her  face.  As  he  entered  the  room,  her 


AN  UNPOSTED  LETTER  26! 

father  paused  for  a  moment  of  half-surprised  pleasure  at 
the  reflection  that  this  graceful,  brown-eyed,  brown-haired 
beauty  was  his  own  daughter.  He  seemed  never  to  have 
realized  it  before.  Then  he  came  into  the  room  and 
brought  Margery  up  to  her  chair. 

"Daphne,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "do  you  happen  to  know 
Denys'  address?  Our  friend  here  is  very  anxious  to  know 
it." 

Daphne  turned  in  her  chair. 

"Why,  Margery,  this  is  nice  to  see  you!  What  brings 
you  here?" 

"I  want  Uncle  Denys :  I  want  to  tell  him  something." 

"He's  on  the  high  seas  at  present,  Margery,  but  he'll 
be  back  in  about  seven  days'  time.  If  it's  anything  very 
important  you  could  write  to  him  at  Gibraltar,  there's  just 
time  to  catch  him  there." 

"Not  for  seven  days  ?    But  I  want  him  back  at  once  1" 

"Is  it  anything  I  can  do?" 

"No,  no,  no!  I  must  see  him!  You  must  tell  him  to 
come  back  at  once !  A  friend  of  his  has  just  been  knocked 
down  by  a  car  and  it  was  all  my  fault  and  he's  dying,  and 
they've  taken  him  off  to  the  hospital  and  his  head  was  all 
bleeding  and  he  wanted  to  see  Uncle  Denys  because  he  said 
so  when  we  met  at  the  flat."  Her  voice  rose  in  an  agon- 
ised treble  and  then  dropped  almost  to  a  whisper.  "You 
must  tell  him  he  must  come  back  at  once.  It  was  his  friend 
Mr.  Weybrook  and  they've  taken  him  to  St.  George's  Hos- 
pital. Oh,  and  he's  dying,  and  it  was  all  my  fault." 

For  a  moment  she  stood  erect  with  eager,  frightened 
eyes,  her  hands  clenched,  her  breath  coming  and  going  in 
irregular  gasps.  Then  the  taut  string  snapped  and  she 
dropped  in  a  heap  on  the  floor,  weeping  with  convulsive 
sobs.  Daphne  picked  her  up  and  carried  her  back  to  the 
chair.  "St.  George's,"  she  whispered  to  her  father,  "go 
and  see  what's  happened,  dad."  Then  she  turned  her  at- 


262  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

tention  to  the  sobbing  child,  pressing  the  golden  head  to  her 
bosom  and  waiting  in  patient  silence  till  the  paroxysm  had 
spent  itself.  Gradually  the  small  body  ceased  to  tremble 
and  the  intervals  between  the  sobs  became  longer,  until  at 
last  she  ended  with  a  sigh  and  raised  a  tear-stained  face 
to  be  kissed. 

"Oh,  I've  cried  all  down  your  dress,"  she  exclaimed  in 
dismay. 

"It  doesn't  matter  a  bit,  Margery,"  said  Daphne,  survey- 
ing the  damage  to  the  green  silk  dress  she  was  wearing. 
"Now  let's  get  comfy  and  then  you  shall  tell  me  all  about 
what  happened." 

Holding  the  child  on  her  knees  and  running  a  hand 
through  the  disordered  tangle  of  golden  hair,  Daphne  lis- 
tened to  a  recital  which  went  back  to  the  day  many  months 
previously  when  she  had  first  met  Denys.  The  ability  to 
prune  a  story  of  its  unessentials,  to  come  to  the  heart  of 
the  narrative  or  to  start  anywhere  but  at  the  beginning,  is 
a  mark  of  mature  mind  not  revealed  to  babes  and  sucklings. 
Beginning  at  the  day  when  Jack  Melbourne  and  Denys 
had  first  met  at  Oxford,  Margery  proceeded  by  leisurely 
stages  to  her  encounter  with  Maurice  that  afternoon  at 
Buckingham  Gate.  Daphne  listened  half-heartedly  to  the 
account  of  what  Margery's  mother  had  said  to  Margery, 
what  Margery  had  said  to  Denys'  man,  and  what  Maurice 
had  said  to  Margery.  Then  suddenly  her  attention  became 
alert:  the  child  was  repeating  their  conversation  on  the 
subject  of  the  vacant  mastership  of  hounds  and  the  un- 
congenial work  lately  resumed  in  the  East-end.  A  phrase 
here  and  there  burned  itself  into  her  brain.  "Then  he  said, 
'I've  taken  it  up  again  this  last  week.  It's  a  pretty  fair 
sweat,  I  don't  mind  telling  you.'  And  I  said,  'Well,  why 
d'you  do  it?'  And  he  said,  'I  should  like  to  hunt  those 
hounds  but  I  can't  without  going  against  a  girl  I  want  to 
oblige,'  Then  he  said,  'Every  morning  down  I  go  just  the 


AN  UNPOSTED  LETTER  263 

same,  because  I  think  she'd  like  it.'  And  I  said,  'Well,  she 
must  be  rather  a  pig,'  and  he  said,  'Oh  no,  she  isn't,  she 
doesn't  even  know  I'm  doing  it.' "  Then  the  narrative 
swept  on  to  the  subject  of  the  accident,  and  Daphne  had  to 
comfort  the  child  again  to  prevent  a  fresh  outburst  of 
weeping. 

When  the  story  was  over  and  Margery  had  been  per- 
suaded that  she  was  not  responsible  for  the  accident,  a  re- 
action set  in  and  their  positions  were  reversed.  It  was 
now  Daphne's  turn  to  sit  silent  and  preoccupied  while  her 
visitor  chattered  unrestrainedly  and  plied  her  with  an  un- 
ending series  of  questions.  Yes,  she  knew  Uncle  Jack 
slightly.  Didn't  she  love  him,  or  did  he  tease  her?  Well, 
she  didn't  know  him  well  enough  to  love  him.  Yes,  she 
had  known  Mr.  Wey brook  for  some  years,  and  admitted 
that  it  was  very  rough  luck  that  he  shouldn't  be  allowed 
to  hunt  the  hounds  if  he  wanted  to.  Yes,  she  had  known 
Uncle  Denys  for  some  time.  Foreseeing  the  inevitable 
following  question:  didn't  she  love  him?  Daphne  inter- 
rupted by  asking  if  Margery  knew  that  he  was  now  a  mem- 
ber of  Parliament.  Margery's  interest  in  politics  was  lim- 
ited, but  the  temporary  check  drove  the  embarrassing  ques- 
tion from  her  mind  and  she  applied  herself  to  the  discovery 
of  further  friends  possessed  in  common. 

Their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  return  of 
Lord  Parkstone.  He  had  telephoned  to  Mrs.  Melbourne 
that  he  would  call  for  her  on  his  way  back  from  the  hos- 
pital, and  they  entered  the  room  together. 

"They  wouldn't  let  me  see  him,"  he  told  Daphne  in 
French.  "But  he's  alive  and  conscious  and  they  don't  think 
there's  any  danger.  He's  very  much  bruised  and  cut, 
though,  and  they  can't  say  yet  how  much  damage  has  been 
done  to  his  back.  It's  just  possible  ..." 

"Yes?" 

"He  may  lose  the  use  of  his  legs." 


264  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Daphne  put  her  lips  to  Margery's  ear  and  translated 
freely. 

"Father's  been  to  the  hospital,"  she  whispered,  "and  he 
isn't  nearly  so  bad  as  we  thought.  I  expect  he'll  be  quite 
ail  right  in  a  few  days,  and  I'm  going  down  to  see  him  as 
soon  as  they'll  let  me.  Now  about  Uncle  Denys.  I  don't 
think  we'll  write  to  him,  Margery,  because  it  might  upset 
him,  and  he's  been  overworking  and  oughtn't  to  be  wor- 
ried. Suppose  we  wait  till  he's  back  in  England?  As  soon 
as  he's  landed  I'll  go  round  and  tell  him  all  about  it,  and  by 
that  time  we'll  hope  Mr.  Weybrook  will  be  .  .  ."  she  was 
going  to  say  "on  his  legs  again"  .  .  .  "quite  well.  Shall 
we  leave  it  like  that  ?  It's  a-  promise,  then,  and  as  soon  as 
I've  seen  Mr.  Weybrook  I'll  come  and  tell  you  how  he's 
getting  on." 

She  kissed  the  child  again  and  restored  her  to  her  mother. 
While  her  father  accompanied  them  downstairs  she 
stood  leaning  her  head  on  her  hand  and  gazing  into  the 
fire. 

"I'm  afraid  this  has  been  rather  an  upset  to  you, 
Daphne,"  said  Lord  Parkstone  on  his  return. 

"How  does  Maurice  seem?  I  should  like  to  go  down 
to  the  hospital  as  soon  as  they'll  let  me." 

"I  was  going  to  make  the  same  suggestion;  I  think  he'd 
like  it,  only  you  won't  be  able  to  go  for  a  day  or  two.  I 
gather  he's  .  .  .  well,  he's  not  a  pretty  sight,  Daphne,  and 
it  always  makes  me  feel  rather  sick  to  see  anybody  in  so 
much  pain.  He's  bearing  it  awfully  well,  though,  I  was 
told;  just  sets  his  teeth  and  let's  them  do  whatever  they 
like  with  him." 

"Yes,  he  would."  She  turned  and  gazed  once  more  intci 
the  fire. 

"I  think  I'd  go  and  lie  down,  Daphne,  if  I  were  you. — 
Yes,  William,  what  is  it?" 

"Are  there  any  more  letters,  my  lord?"  asked  the  foot- 


AN  UNPOSTED  LETTER  265 

man,  who  had  just  entered  the  room  with  a  salver  in  his 
hand. 

"Mine  are  on  my  table  downstairs.  Have  you  any  you 
want  to  go,  Daphne?  It's  a  quarter-past  six." 

"No,  it's  too  late  now,"  she  said,  thoughtfully  fingering 
the  letter  she  had  written  to  Denys.  Then  she  slowly  tore 
it  into  four  and  dropped  the  fragments  into  the  fire.  "I've 
lost  the  mail,  father  dear." 

Nine  days  later  the  "Bird  of  Time"  was  beating  up 
channel,  two  and  a  half  days  late  and  with  the  prospect 
of  further  delay  before  them.  Since  passing  Finisterre 
they  had  run  into  a  succession  of  fog-banks,  and  their 
progress  was  reduced  to  an  hour's  steaming  at  quarter 
power,  followed  by  two,  three,  or  four  hours  at  anchor 
in  wet,  penetrating  mist,  the  air  around  them  filled  with 
the  petulant,  timid  hootings  of  outward-bound  mail-boats. 

Denys  was  sitting  on  deck  wrapped  in  a  thick  coat  and 
sucking  at  an  old  pipe.  The  three  weeks  he  had  spent  with 
the  Farlings  had  been  the  most  constrained  and  uncom- 
fortable he  had  ever  experienced.  To  begin  with,  he  had 
come  into  a  house  divided  against  itself.  Sir  William  was 
still  far  from  being  reconciled  to  his  granddaughter  for  the 
part  she  had  played  at  the  Riversley  ball,  however  much 
he  might  approve  of  the  probable  result;  Sheila  was  sore 
and  sensitive  at  the  treatment  she  had  received  from  her 
relations,  exaggerating  their  antagonism  to  herself  and 
keeping  alive  an  undiscriminating  resentment  against  any- 
one who  was  even  remotely  connected  with  the  Riversley 
episode.  In  the  next  place,  Denys  was  not  at  ease  with  his 
host.  On  the  day  of  embarkation  the  papers  had  been  full 
of  his  Lambeth  speech.  Partly  to  justify  his  boast  to 
Sheila,  partly  to  satisfy  a  nervous  anger  and  impatience, 
he  had — as  he  had  promised — "let  himself  go."  The  La- 
bour organs  were  delighted,  but  the  responsible  Conserva- 


266  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

tive  papers  wrote  of  the  meeting  in  terms  of  undisguised 
misgiving.  It  was  impossible  not  to  see  that  their  fears 
were  appreciated  and  to  some  extent  shared  by  Sir  William. 

There  was  yet  another  source  of  embarrassment.  Now 
that  he  was  far  from  the  memories  of  his  life's  work  and 
removed  from  the  excitements  of  a  political  campaign, 
Denys  experienced  the  usual  reaction:  the  unreality  of  his 
grievances,  the  unrighteousness  of  his  crusade  were 
thoughts  far  more  insistent  than  the  old  dogged  and  un- 
compromising desire  for  revenge  which  had  kept  him 
alive  in  the  early  days  of  struggle  when  he  had  first  come 
to  live  in  London.  Never  had  he  been  so  reluctant  to  gird 
himself  for  battle,  never  had  he  dreamed  so  lovingly  of 
his  books,  his  comfortable  rooms,  and  his  unfinished  re- 
searches. He  was  once  more  sensible  of  a  rebellious  con- 
science: it  seemed  intolerable  that  he  should  have  been 
launched  into  politics,  that  he  should  at  that  very  mo- 
ment be  financially  supported,  by  a  man  who  had  no  con- 
ception of  his  real  aims,  a  member  of  those  very  posses- 
sory classes  which  it  was  his  mission  to  exploit. 

"Rather  different  weather,  Denys,  from  what  we  had  the 
last  time  we  sailed  these  waters  together." 

Sir  William  pulled  up  a  chair  alongside  and  borrowed 
a  corner  of  Denys'  rug. 

"It  is.  I  congratulate  you  on  the  'Bird  of  Time,'  Sir 
William;  she's  a  beautifully  found  boat." 

"I  wish  you  were  coming  with  us.  I  can't  congratulate 
you  on  your  looks,  my  boy,  and  you've  got  an  awful  cough 
still.  I'll  back  the  South  Seas  to  cure  that." 

"It's  too  late,  I'm  afraid.  I'm  too  deeply  committed. 
If  you'd  asked  me  seven  months  ago,  when  we  were  com- 
ing back  from  Spain,  I'd  have  accepted  it.  But  now  ..." 

He  left  the  sentence  unfinished  and  followed  out  his 
train  of  thought.  It  was  not  only  his  political  engagements 
which  called  him  to  London;  Daphne  also  awaited  him. 


AN  UNPOSTED  LETTER  267 

And  it  was  not  his  newly-won  dignities  alone  which  made 
it  too  late  for  him  to  think  of  a  prolonged  holiday  in  warm 
waters;  he  felt  that  his  heart  and  lungs  had  been  left  to 
fend  for  themselves  until  it  was  too  late  to  think  of  patch- 
ing them. 

"Don't  be  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  when  you  get  back," 
went  on  Sir  William,  returning  to  his  chair.  "You  know, 
that  speech  of  yours  in  Lambeth  was  a  fine  appeal  to  La- 
bour, but  it  comes  too  early  in  the  day  for  our  stick-in- 
the-muds.  A  few  more  speeches  of  the  same  kind  and 
you'll  be  disowned.  The  success  of  your  career  lies  in  driv- 
ing two  parties  in  double  harness:  any  fool  can  lead  one 
party — more  or  less — and  it's  not  one  party  we  want. 
You've  bridled  Labour  up  to  the  present,  but  the  Front 
Bench  needs  a  lot  of  breaking-in.  Old  Palace  Yard  is 
white  with  the  bones  of  men  who  set  out  to  modernise  the 
Conservative  Party."  He  paused  to  light  a  cigar.  "An- 
other thing:  if  you're  in  too  much  of  a  hurry,  you'll  just 
break  down,  and  I  don't  want  to  have  your  life  on  my 
conscience." 

"But  I'm  all  right." 

"You're  not,  Denys.  Excuse  my  contradicting  you  flatly, 
but  you're  not.  I've  watched  you  gradually  bending  under 
the  strain  ever  since  you  started,  and  it's  made  me  very 
uncomfortable.  I'm  morally  responsible  for  starting  you 
in  political  life,  as  Sheila  never  fails  to  remind  me,  and  if 
anything  happens  to  you,  I  shall  be  held  to  blame.  Here, 
this  is  too  cold  for  me." 

Struggling  to  his  feet  from  the  depth  of  the  deck-chair, 
he  sought  the  warmth  of  the  saloon.  Denys  glanced  down 
the  deck,  wondering  if  it  were  a  propitious  moment  for  en- 
tering into  conversation  with  Sheila.  For  three  weeks  his 
relations  with  her  had  been  unbearable.  In  every  word 
and  act  she  was  bitterly  faithful  to  her  declaration  that  she 
never  wished  to  see  or  speak  to  him  again ;  and  perhaps 


268  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

the  most  exasperating  feature  of  her  conduct  was  that  the 
more  she  slighted  him  and  the  more  irreconcilable  she  be- 
came, the  nearer  he  was  drawn  to  her  and  the  greater  sac- 
rifices he  felt  prepared  to  make  for  even  the  smallest 
crumb  of  her  affection.  A  dozen  times  a  day  he  summed 
up  the  position  and  passed  sentence  on  her:  he  liked  her, 
he  liked  her  very  much,  he  was — yes,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  it  this  time — lie  was  in  love  with  her  and  would  do 
anything  for  her  and  submit  to  any  kind  of  treatment  at 
her  hands.  She  had  decided  that  he  was  to  marry  her 
cousin.  Well,  he  was  going  to,  she  had  so  contrived  that 
there  was  no  escape.  Frankly,  he  did  not  love  Daphne, 
because — well,  she  seemed  too  ethereal  to  mate  with  com- 
mon clay.  He  had  said  as  much,  and  regretted  the  hour 
when  Sheila  first  took  it  upon  herself  to  play  the  agent  of 
providence.  For  that  word  he  had  been  placed  under  the 
ban  of  excommunication.  He  jumped  up  irritably  from 
his  chair  and  went  off  in  search  of  her.  His  summings-up 
always  ended  in  the  same  way,  and  were  humanly  charac- 
teristic of  man's  dealing  with  woman :  he  found  her  guilty 
on  every  count  of  the  indictment  and  then  hurried  to  placate 
her  with  apologies. 

"We  shall  be  off  Dungeness  in  half  an  hour,  Sheila," 
he  began.  "Then  for  the  blessed  sight  of  English  news- 
papers— that  is,  if  the  pilot  is  the  man  and  brother  I  hope 
to  find  him." 

There  was  no  answer,  so  he  sat  down  on  deck  at  her 
feet. 

"I  say,  Sheila,  we  shall  be  in  before  evening;  you're 
leaving  again  in  a  few  weeks'  time  for  goodness  knows 
how  long;  in  the  interval  I  promise  not  to  speak  to  you  or 
bother  you  in  any  way.  Do  let's  be  friends  for  just  our 
last  day  together.  From  the  moment  we  land  I  promise 
on  my  honour  never  to  cross  your  path  again." 

She  looked  at  him  absently  and  then  continued  to  gaze 


AN  UNPOSTED  LETTER  269 

at  the  banks  of  fog  which  were  once  more  gathering  round 
the  boat.  The  voyage  had  been  a  long  agony  to  her.  Fully 
recognising  that  Denys  had  in  no  way  injured  her  and  had 
instead  gone  out  of  his  way  to  be  agreeable  and  to  effect 
a  rapprochement,  she  had  lost  no  opportunity  of  bleeding 
him  to  death  by  pin-pricks.  Every  morning  she  met  him 
with  the  resolution  of  apologising  for  her  behaviour,  every 
afternoon  she  insulted  him,  and  every  evening  she  retired 
to  her  cabin  and  whistled  loudly  to  keep  from  crying  over 
what  she  had  done.  He  had  come  on  board  dark-eyed  and 
hollow-cheeked,  torn  with  coughing  and  worn  out  with  the 
strain  of  the  past  months:  he  was  coming  back  to  twelve 
more  weeks  of  winter,  if  anything  rather  worse  than  when 
he  set  out.  She  had  never  felt  so  frightened  on  his  ac- 
count before,  she  had  never  so  deeply  appreciated  his  win- 
ning manner  and  charm  of  speech,  and  she  had  never  been 
so  swept  off  her  feet  by  an  uncontrollable  frenzy  for  in- 
flicting pain.  At  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  knew  the 
reason:  Denys  had  been  dedicated  to  Daphne  before  she 
knew  that  she  could  not  bear  to  be  parted  from  him.  If 
once  she  relaxed  her  attitude  of  inhumanity  she  dared  not 
contemplate  to  what  lengths  she  might  be  carried. 

"I'm  quite  willing  to  be  friends,"  she  began  rather 
wearily.  "It's  only  fair  to  remind  you,  though,  that  you 
told  me  at  Riversley  that  you  regretted  the  day  you  ever 
met  me." 

"I  know,  and  I  apologised,  and  I  repeat  my  apology.  I 
shall  never  experience  anything  that  would  compensate  me 
for  some  of  the  days  I've  spent  with  you  these  last  six 
months." 

"Thank  you:  perhaps  you'd  like  a  spade  next  time.  I 
don't  like  half -measures  when  there  are  compliments  flying 
about." 

He  resisted  the  temptation  to  make  a  sharp  reply. 

"We've  covered  a  good  deal  of  ground  since  we  sailed 


270  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

along  this  coast  six  months  ago,"  he  remarked  thoughtfully. 
"I  was  going  back  then  to  a  directorship  in  an  insurance 
company,  to  spend  my  spare  time  trying  to  win  my  way 
into  politics  at  the  point  of  a  pen,  and  looking  out  the  while 
for  a  wife  rich  enough  to  support  me  in  comparative  idle- 
ness. And  now,"  he  relit  his  pipe,  "the  directorship's  gone 
because  I  didn't  approve  of  their  methods  of  doing  busi- 
ness, and  the  company's  been  running  rather  quickly  down- 
hill since  the  last  time  I  crossed  their  threshold,  and 
I've  made  a  lasting  enemy  of  one  of  my  colleagues.  But 
I've  got  into  the  House  in  spite  of  that  enemy  and  several 
others." 

Sheila  rearranged  the  cushion  behind  her  head. 

"I  see  you  only  dwell  on  the  successes,  my  young  friend." 

"What  else  is  there  to  dwell  on?" 

"Well — how  about  the  failures?  You've  been  put  into 
Parliament  by  Uncle  Herbert  and  Father  Time  and 
Daphne.  Oh,  I  know  you  worked  hard  for  it,  I've  not  for- 
gotten the  'Trustees  of  Posterity,'  but  you  wouldn't  have 
got  in  without  them,  and  whenever  you  think  how  much 
you  owe  them,  you  begin  to  squirm.  You're  squirming  now, 
Denys.  Admit  it." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Failure  number  one.  And  from  time  to  time,  say  when 
you're  just  coming  back  to  England,  you  think  what  a 
ridiculous  figure  you're  cutting  and  how  much  happier 
you'd  have  been  if  you'd  never  given  up  your  Fellowship 
and  left  Oxford  to  preach  anarchy  And  then  you  squirm 
again." 

Once  more  there  was  no  answer. 

"Failure  number  two.  At  night  you  lie  in  bed  coughing 
and  thinking  what  a  fool  you  were  to  tax  your  strength 
making  open-air  speeches  when  you  ought  to  have  been 
sitting  before  the  fire  drinking  hot  whiskey  and  water, 
or  whatever  it  is  one  does  drink.  My  dear  boy,  do  you 


AN  UNPOSTED  LETTER  271 

think  I  can't  hear  you?  I  lie  awake  at  night  listening  to 
you  coughing.  Then  you  wonder  how  long  you'll  be  able 
to  last,  and  you  squirm  again.  And  when  you've  finished 
squirming  over  that,  you  think  of  Daphne  and  imagine 
yourself  looking  her  in  the  eyes  and  trying  to  tell  her — 
or  hide  from  her,  it  doesn't  matter  which — what  I  found 
out  one  summer  day  when  we  travelled  down  to  Riversley 
together.  Squirm  on,  my  little  friend,  it's  good  for  you, 
it  takes  the  conceit  out  of  you." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  Riversley  ball  she  had 
dropped  her  frigidity  of  manner  and  gone  back  to  the  easy 
bantering  tone  of  their  earlier  intimacy.  Denys  did  not 
mind  the  onslaught,  he  was  willing  to  admit,  to  himself, 
the  truth  of  each  one  of  her  charges.  It  was  a  triumph 
to  have  won  her  back  to  a  mood  of  good-tempered  raillery. 

"What's  your  own  record,  Sheila  ?"  he  asked. 

"Mine?  I  won  every  hand,  every  game  and  every  rub- 
ber. I  started  out  to  save  Daphne  from  Maurice,  and  I've 
saved  her,"  she  added  between  set  teeth.  "And  I  started 
out  to  show  you  you  must  be  a  good  little  boy  and  not 
indulge  in  naughty  temper  because  some  old  ancestor  of 
yours  was  punished  for  breaking  the  laws  of  the  land. 
Of  course  I've  lost  a  trick  here  and  there:  Riversley 's  a 
closed  country  to  me  for  some  time  to  come  and  I've 
lost  you  as  a  friend,  which  is  a  pity,  because  you  used  to 
amuse  me.  But  I  never  undertook  to  win  grand  slam  in 
every  hand.  And  so,"  she  sighed  as  she  spoke,  "you're 
just  one  of  the  little  tricks  I've  lost." 

"So  the  old  charge  is  true:  there's  nothing  you  won't 
sacrifice,  not  even  your  friends,  to  get  your  own  way." 

"Meaning  you?  I  didn't  contemplate  losing  you  when  I 
started  to  play.  I  was  sorry  to  lose  you,  Denys,  you  were 
quite  a  dear  at  times,  but  you  had  to  go." 

"Why?" 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  know?    There  was  one  moment 


272  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

when  I  had  the  alternative  of  sacrificing  you  and  winning 
the  game  or  sacrificing  the  game  and  keeping  you.  Then 
I  thought  of  Daphne  and  Maurice  and  I  let  you  be  trumped. 
I  quite  felt  the  loss,  Denys ;  I  feel  it  still.  I  shall  miss  you 
a  lot,  because  we're  never  going  to  meet  again  when  once 
we're  back  in  England.  Yes,  you  want  to  know  why,  don't 
you?  And  you're  just  not  going  to  be  told,  not  if  you 
roasted  me  over  a  slow  fire.  What's  all  the  fuss  about 
up  there?" 

"We're  taking  the  pilot  on  board." 

"Well,  see  if  they've  brought  any  papers  with  them.  You 
were  crying  out  for  news  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"That  was  because  you  were  grumpy.  I  want  to  sit 
and  talk,  Sheila,  if  this  is  really  our  last  day  together." 
"And  you  want  to  sit  and  show  me  what  a  beautiful 
profile  you've  got.  You  have,  I  admit  it,  so  now  you  can 
go  and  look  for  papers.  My  dear,  London  may  have  burnt 
down  since  we  left  Gib." 

Denys  walked  forward  and  greeted  the  pilot,  a  stout 
man  who  had  to  be  assisted  over  the  side  by  means  of  a 
line  and  required  five  minutes'  rest  before  he  had  recovered 
his  breath  sufficiently  to  speak. 

"Good-morning,  gentlemen,"  he  gasped.  "Papers?  Ton 
my  soul,  I'm  afraid  I've  forgot  to  bring  any.  Not  that 
there's  any  news  worth  speaking  of  the  last  week  or  so. 
But  you'd  be  glad  of  anything,  I  suppose.  Stop  a  bit!  • 
he  thrust  a  gouty  hand  into  the  bottomless  depths  of  his 
coat-pocket.  "I've  got  this,  but  it's  three  days  old.  If  it's 
any  good  to  you,  sir,  you're  welcome  to  it." 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  it  if  I  may,"  said  Denys,  "we've 
seen  nothing  since  we  left  Gib." 

He  returned  with  his  prize  to  Sheila's  chair,  and  for 
ten  minutes  they  sat  conning  the  greasy  pages.  Then 
Denys  gave  a  sudden  start  and  began  to  read  with  atten- 
tion. At  the  bottom  of  the  middle  page,  sandwiched  be- 


AN  UNPOSTED  LETTER  273 

tween  a  wedding  and  a  hunt-ball,  was  a  short  paragraph 
entitled:  "Accident  to  the  Marquis  of  Badstow's  heir." 
He  read  it  and  handed  the  sheet  to  Sheila  with  a  ringer 
marking  the  item.  It  ran: 

"An  accident  of  a  serious  character  took  place  yesterday 
afternoon  at  the  St.  James's  Street  end  of  Pall  Mall.  Mr. 
Maurice  Weybrook,  the  nephew  and  heir  to  the  Marquis 
of  Badstow,  was  crossing  Pall  Mall  in  company  with  a 
small  girl  when  a  private  car  rounded  the  corner  on  its 
way  to  the  park.  The  car  does  not  appear  to  have  been 
driven  at  excessive  speed,  but  the  child  seems  to  have  be- 
come frightened  and  to  have  lost  her  head.  Mr.  Weybrook 
succeeded  in  getting  her  out  of  the  way  of  the  car  but  was 
unable  to  jump  clear  himself.  The  mud-guard  struck  him 
and  threw  him  with  considerable  violence  on  to  the  pave- 
ment. He  was  at  once  removed  in  an  ambulance  to  St. 
George's  Hospital,  where  he  is  said  to  be  lying  in  a  critical 
condition.  Mr.  Weybrook,  who  is  the  only  son  of  the 
late  Lord  Arthur  Weybrook,  and  grandson  of  the  fourth 
Marquis,  is  twenty-five  years  of  age  and  until  this  year 
held  a  commission  in  the  Third  Grenadier  Guards.  He 
is  well  known  in  Society  and  will  be  the  recipient  of  wide- 
spread sympathy." 

Sheila  handed  back  the  paper.  "Poor  Maurice!"  she 
said  in  a  sobered  tone.  "I  almost  wish  I  hadn't  treated 
him  like  that." 

"It's  rather  late  in  the  day  to  be  feeling  that,"  said 
Denys,  thinking  aloud.  The  news  of  the  accident  had 
shocked  him  and  revived  the  warm  regard  which  he  had 
always  entertained  for  the  good-natured,  good  tempered, 
blundering,  bucolic  Maurice.  He  could  never  free  him- 
self from  the  idea  that  he  had — all  unwittingly — been  drawn 
in  to  play  a  not  quite  honourable  part  in  the  general 


274  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

conspiracy  against  him.  Some  part  of  the  remorse  which 
he  now  felt  rising  within  him  he  chose  jo  visit  on  the  head 
of  Sheila. 

"It  is  too  late  in  the  day  to  be  of  much  use,"  she  said 
absently.  She  too  was  thinking  aloud,  though  Denys' 
thoughts  and  her  own  ran  on  widely  different  lines.  If 
it  were  predestined  that  Maurice  should  be  knocked  down 
and  killed  she  could  not  resist  the  unchristian  thought  that 
he  might  have  been  put  out  of  the  way  six  months  earlier. 
Then  Daphne's  troubles  would  have  been  ended  without 
any  interference  on  her  part:  that  hateful  evening  at 
Riversley  would  be  a  nightmare  still  in  embryo,  the  last 
three  weeks'  mortification  of  the  spirit  would  have  been 
spared  and  she  would  have  been  relieved  of  the  necessity 
for  reminding  Denys  that  they  were  spending  their  last  day 
together.  She  confessed  to  herself  that  it  was  an  un- 
christian feeling,  but  at  the  moment  she  was  concerned  less 
with  Christianity  than  wtih  her  love  for  Denys. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated  thoughtfully,  picking  up  the  paper 
again,  "I'm  afraid  it's  come  too  late  to  be  of  any  use  at 
all." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DENYS   TRIES    TO    KEEP    HIS    PROMISE 

"Oh,  my  grief,  I've  lost  him  surely.  I've  lost  the  only  Playboy 
of  the  Western  World." 

J.  M.  SYNGE:  "THE  PLAYBOY  OF  THE  WESTERN  WORLD." 

AT  nine  o'clock  the  same  evening  Denys  was  sitting  by 
himself  at  Buckingham  Gate.  A  neglected  Westminster 
Gazette  lay  beside  his  plate:  several  weeks'  accumulation 
of  letters  stared  at  him  in  dumb  reproach  from  the  mantel- 
piece, and  after  three  unsuccessful  attempts  at  friendship 
the  blue  Persian  had  retired  to  preserve  her  dignity  on  the 
hearth-rug.  He  was  trying  to  realise  his  position  and  what 
it  involved.  He  would  have  to  see  Daphne  next  day  and 
find  whether  she  had  communicated  to  her  parents  the 
terms  of  their  parting  at  Riversley.  It  did  not  matter 
greatly  whether  she  had  or  not,  save  in  so  far  as  the  nar- 
ration was  likely  to  involve  him  in  an  embarrassing  inter- 
view with  her  mother.  And  then — but  that  was  the  end 
so  far  as  Daphne  was  concerned:  it  would  be  but  a  ques- 
tion of  time  before  he  committed  the  criminal  folly  of 
marrying  a  girl  he  did  not  love.  His  thoughts  turned  ta 
his  public  position:  in  another  six  weeks  the  King  would 
be  opening  Parliament  and  the  new  member  would  take 
his  seat.  On  the  first  suitable  occasion  he  would  make  his 
maiden  speech — and  declare  himself. 

Then  he  would  have  to  face  the  consequences.  He  felt 
he  should  not  mind  the  official  criticism  of  the  party 

275 


276  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

leaders  he  was  supposed  to  be  following:  they  had  had 
their  warning  in  the  "Trustees  of  Posterity,"  and  for  the 
present  at  least  he  did  not  propose  to  advance  one  inch 
beyond  what  he  had  advocated  there.  Moreover,  the  criti- 
cism would  be  tempered  by  the  fact  that  the  "Trustees" 
stood  in  Lord  Parkstone's  name:  it  was  impossible  to  at- 
tack the  agent  and  spare  the  principal.  With  Sir  William 
it  was  different:  to  accept  his  money  and  support  and 
then  attack  him  with  the  weapons  of  his  own  providing 
was  a  prospect  which  he  did  not  relish. 

He  pictured  the  expression  of  lofty  contempt  on  Sheila's 
face  and  "squirmed"  as  she  had  told  him  he  would  squirm. 
It  was  true  that  he  would  not  be  present  to  see,  as  he  had 
undertaken  never  to  cross  her  path  again:  but  it  would 
be  there  none  the  less,  and  even  when  he  carried  out  his 
intention  of  refusing  all  further  assistance  from  her  grand- 
father she  would  continue  to  despise  him.  And  if  he 
could  dismiss  Sheila  from  his  mind  and  disregard  her  opin- 
ion of  him  there  was  still  Daphne  to  placate — or  remain 
implacable.  He  would  rather  lose  a  year  of  life  than 
cause  her  pain.  Already  he  was  wronging  her  sufficiently 
by  marrying  her,  and  yet  there  was  no  escape  from  the 
dilemma.  She  would  one  day  wake  to  find  herself  the 
wife  of  a  dangerous  incendiary  and  demagogue,  and  it 
was  only  in  this  way  that  he  could  avenge  the  memory 
of  his  dead  grandfather  and  show  himself  worthy  of  his 
father's  name.  Lives  and  houses  and  land  had  already 
been  sacrified,  there  was  nothing  else  left  for  him  to 
give;  but  as  he  stared  at  the  changing  colours  of  the 
fire  he  reflected  bitterly  that  his  own  sacrifice  was  the 
heaviest. 

Leaving  his  savoury  untasted,  he  was  beginning  to  peel 
a  pear  when  his  attention  was  attracted  by  the  sound  of 
voices  in  the  hall.  His  servant  was  saying:  "Mr.  Play- 
fair  is  now  at  dinner.  What  name  shall  I  tell  him?"  and 


TRIES  TO  KEEP  HIS  PROMISE       277; 

a  female  voice  answered:  "Oh,  well,  don't  interrupt  him, 
then.  When  he  has  finished,  will  you  say  that  a  lady 
would  like  to  speak  to  him  for  a  moment?"  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  soft,  grave  tones  of  the  voice,  and  Denys 
jumped  up  and  hurried  into  the  hall  as  the  man  was  clos- 
ing the  door  after  showing  Lady  Daphne  into  the  library. 
She  did  not  hear  him  come  in,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
enjoying  the  restful  warmth  of  the  deep-carpeted,  book- 
lined  room.  Then  as  he  closed  the  door  she  turned  with  a 
little  cry  of  pleasure. 

"I  oughtn't  to  be  here,  ought  I,  Denys?"  she  said,  "but 
I  had  to  come.  There's  been  some  very  bad  news  while 
you  were  away  and  I  promised  to  tell  you  as  soon  as  you 
got  back."  She  paused  and  looked  round  her  as  though  she 
were  afraid  to  approach  the  subject  of  her  visit.  "What 
a  lovely  room;  I've  never  been  here  before." 

"Let  me  help  you  out  of  your  cloak,  Daphne,"  he  said, 
"you'll  find  it  hot  in  here." 

"Oh,  but  I  mustn't  stay,  Denys.  No,  I  won't  even 
sit  down,  thanks.  I  just  want  to  tell  you  something  and 
ask  you  to  do  something  for  me  and  then  I  must  go.  No- 
body knows  where  I  am  at  present."  She  walked  over  to 
the  fire  and  stood  with  her  arm  resting  on  the  mantel- 
piece while  Denys  lit  a  cigar  and  sat  opposite  her  on  the 
edge  of  his  writing-table.  She  was  wearing  a  sable  cloak, 
open  at  the  throat,  and  round  her  neck  hung  the  pendant 
which  he  had  given  her  at  Riversley.  Her  dress  was  of 
black  silk  and  seemed  to  make  her  usually  pale  face  paler 
by  contrast;  the  pupils  of  her  dark  brown  eyes  were  di- 
lated with  excitement;  the  quickness  of  her  breathing  and 
the  trembling  of  her  whole  body  gave  evidence  of  the 
emotional  stress  under  which  she  was  speaking. 

"Denys,  I  suppose  you've  not  heard  about  Maurice?" 
she  began. 

"Nothing  fresh.     This  afternoon  I  saw  an  account  of 


278  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

the  accident  in  an  old  paper.  I  was  going  to  inquire  to- 
morrow. Is  he  .  .  ." 

"Then  you  have  heard."  She  sighed  and  then  went  on. 
"That  makes  it  easier  in  a  way.  No,  he's  not  going  to 
die,  they  say  he's  out  of  danger  now,  but  he  may  not  be 
able  to  walk  again.  I  saw  him  for  a  few  minutes  this 
afternoon." 

"How  did  he  seem?" 

"Bad.  Oh,  he's  very  bad,  but  they  say  he's  bea-ing  it 
all  very  well.  He  wouldn't  talk  about  himself  but  he 
inquired  after  you.  I  think  he  was  surprised  at  my  com- 
ing. In  fact,  he  said  he  hadn't  expected  to  see  me  again." 

She  paused  again  and  he  watched  her  in  silence.  Then 
she  went  on  quickly:  "Denys,  I've  misjudged  Maurice. 
There's  a  lot  more  good  in  him  than  I  thought.  After 
Riversley  I  never  meant  to  see  him  again.  He  called 
and  I  wouldn't  see  him,  and  he  wrote  and  mother  sent 
him  back  his  letter.  I  felt  nothing  could  make  me  forgive 
his But  I  saw  him  to-day  and  said:  'Well,  Mau- 
rice, how  are  you?'  and  he  said:  'Fit  as  a  fiddle,  thanks, 
Daphne/  and  then  he  apologised  for — for  Riversley. 
Denys,  I  don't  believe  he'd  have  behaved  like  that  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Sheila.  Ever  since  he  came  back  to  town 
he's  been  trying  to  see  me  to  say  how  sorry  he  was,  and 
when  I  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  him,  do  you 
know,  he  went  off  all  by  himself  visiting  in  the  East-end 
at  the  houses  where  we  went  together  in  the  summer. 
He  didn't  tell  me  about  that,  I  heard  it  from  someone  else. 
I  nearly  cried  when  I  heard  it.  Maurice  must  have  hated 
it  so,  and  it  seemed  quite  pathetic  to  think  of  him  doing 
it  just  to  please  me  and  never  expecting  I  should  find  out. 
Maurice  is  better  than  I  thought." 

Denys  smoked  on  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Daphne's  face. 
He  felt  that  she  had  not  called  on  him  with  so  much 
(urgency  merely  to  describe  her  visit  to  the  hospital,  but 


TRIES  TO  KEEP  HIS  PROMISE       279 

he  had  no  idea  of  the  climax  she  was  approaching.  Then 
suddenly  she  lowered  her  voice  and  stammered  out  the 
announcement  which  had  held  her  in  white  and  trembling 
anticipation. 

"Denys,  I  ...  I  feel  I  can't  leave  Maurice  like  this! 
It  would  be  so  mean,  so  hateful.  I  know  he  oughtn't  to 
have  behaved  like  that  at  Riversley,  but  he  has  been  try- 
ing to  wipe  it  out.  Mind  you,  he  hasn't  said  anything  to 
me  about  it,  he  didn't  make  any  capital  out  of  lying  there 
swathed  in  bandages,  he  didn't  try  to  work  on  my  feel- 
ings. Just  the  other  way.  He  said  he  certainly  wouldn't 
be  able  to  hunt  Collison's  hounds  now,  and  as  a  matter  of 
fact  I  know  that  he  refused  two  days  before  the  accident 
because  he  wanted  me  to  see  that  hunting  wasn't  the  only 
thing  he  cared  for.  Denys,  I  do  really  believe  he  loves 
me  still!" 

"I'm  sure  he  does." 

"Then  what  ought  I  to  do?  At  least,  I  know  what  1 
ought  to  do :  I  want  you  to  agree  that  I'm  doing  right." 

"Do  you  love  Maurice,  Daphne?" 

He  waited  silently  for  the  answer,  and  waited  sadlj. 
Now  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  losing  her,  he  could  ap- 
preciate the  magnitude  of  his  loss.  Once  before  in  Devon- 
shire and  once  at  Riversley  he  had  melted  in  pity  at  the 
sight  of  the  beautiful  grave  eyes  and  face  of  suffering. 
Now  again,  when  he  thought  of  her  life-long  bondage  in  a 
loveless  union,  he  was  irresistibly  moved  to  assert  his  false 
claim  and  spare  her  at  least  the  appearance  of  the  greater 
evil.  He  could  never  love  her,  because  she  lived  among 
the  stars  and  breathed  a  finer  air,  but  he  was  never  nearer 
loving  her  than  at  that  moment,  and  if  he  could  not  offer 
her  love,  he  could  make  her  sure  of  solicitude  and  sym- 
pathy. For  a  while  she  did  not  reply  and  he  repeated  his 
question.  She  turned  from  the  fire,  weighing  her  words 
with  a  strange  mixture  of  fearlessness  and  indecision. 


28o  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"No,  I  don't." 

"Then  ..." 

"No!"  She  seemed  to  have  found  the  clue  to  her 
tangled  thoughts.  "That's  not  the  right  standpoint,  Denys. 
That's  what  you  said  in  Devonshire,  and  I  think  I  believed 
it  then.  But  I  don't  now.  Love  isn't  everything.  I  wish 
it  were,  but  it's  only  a  small  part  of  something  much  bigger 
and  much  more  difficult.  It  isn't  just  'Do  I  love  Maurice?' 
It's  'What  is  my  duty  to  Maurice?'  I've  really  only  seen 
that  this  last  week.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  accident  .  .  . 
I  don't  know.  But  I  don't  feel  I  ought  to  leave  him  now." 

Denys  threw  away  his  cigar  and  got  down  from  the 
table  where  he  had  been  sitting.  Standing  opposite  to 
her  in  the  firelight  and  looking  into  her  eyes  he  began  slow- 
ly and  uncertainly  to  make  his  last  appeal :  the  same  help- 
less and  predestined  feeling  which  had  possessed  him  at 
Riversley  again  laid  hold  of  his  mind;  he  was  struggling 
for  a  prize  which  he  dared  not  win,  and  seeking  to  over- 
come a  resistance  which  he  feared  might  prove  only  too 
short-lived. 

"It's  a  question  of  duty,  Daphne,"  he  said.  "Yes,  I 
agree.  But  you're  thinking  of  your  duty  to  Maurice  and 
forgetting  your  duty  to  yourself." 

She  shook  her  head.     "There  isn't  one — here." 

"Oh,  but  there  is!  Leave  me  out  of  the  calculation, 
imagine  you're  meeting  me  now  for  the  first  time,  and  just 
consider  what  it  will  mean  if  you  marry  Maurice.  You're 
twenty-one,  Daphne,  and  he's  twenty-five.  Thirty,  forty, 
fifty  years,  perhaps,  you'll  live  with  him,  and  not  one  idea 
in  common.  He'll  do  his  best  to  meet  you  and  see  life  from 
your  point  of  view,  because  he's  in  love  with  you.  As 
long  as  he  is  in  love  with  you,"  he  added  thoughtfully. 
"And  you'll  try  to  meet  him  and  take  an  interest  in  his 
side  of  life,  and  you'll  both  succeed — for  a  month  or  two. 
But  after  that — Daphne,  you  don't  appreciate  what  mar- 


TRIES  TO  KEEP  HIS  PROMISE       281 

riage  means;  it's  a  life-time,  an  eternity,  perhaps  the  only 
eternity  we  ever  know.  You  can't  treat  it  as  if  it  were 
a  dinner-party,  and  you  were  going  down  with  a  stranger; 
you  can't  exist  on  polite  small-talk,  you  must  have  some- 
thing to  fall  back  on.  What  have  you  got  in  common  with 
Maurice?  You  haven't  the  same  tastes  or  manners,  you 
don't  read  the  same  books,  there's  as  wide  a  gulf  between 
you  as  if  you  talked  a  different  language.  There's  no 
sympathy  between  your  souls;  it's  an  armed  neutrality  at 
best.  And  that's  your  lot  for  the  whole  of  life.  I  hate 
to  talk  like  this,  because  I  seem  to  be  running  Maurice 
down  when  he  can't  defend  himself.  It's  very  fine  of 
you  to  say  you  can't  leave  him  now  that's  he's  down  and 
broken,  but  you've  a  right  to  consider  your  own  happiness, 
and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  happiness  you  think  you'll 
win  by  marrying  a  man  you  don't  even  pretend  to  love." 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  my  own  happiness,"  she  said  softly. 

"But  you  should  be,  it's  what  we're  here  for.  If  any- 
one believed  he  was  put  into  the  world  and  denied  the 
opportunity  of  seeking  to  extract  the  maximum  of  happi- 
ness from  an  imperfect  scheme  of  things,  life  would  be 
insupportable;  he  would  commit  suicide.  It's  the  deepest 
instinct  of  our  being.  What  else  have  we  to  guide  us?" 

She  passed  her  hand  over  her  eyes  with  a  gentle  sigh. 
"I've  thought  all  that  out  this  last  week:  I've  been  finding 
answers  to  a  lot  of  questions  that  used  to  puzzle  me.  Love 
isn't  everything,  and  our  instincts  are  very  untrustworthy 
guides.  If  we  depended  on  them,  nothing  would  ever  be 
done  and  we  should  be  no  better  than  the  beasts,  hunting 
and  eating  and  sleeping  and  hunting  again.  We're  made 
of  finer  stuff  than  that,  Denys,  and  we  prove  it  by  the  way 
we  take  trouble  to  do  things  we  don't  like  just  because — • 
well,  because  we  feel  we  ought  to.  Look  at  father,  look 
at  yourself,  everyone  you  know — they  all  behave  in  a  cer- 
tain way  because  they  feel  it's  their  duty;  and  now  that 


282  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

I'm  faced  with  the  choice,  I've  got  to  do  the  thing  I  know 
to  be  right." 

"But,  Daphne  ..." 

"Oh,  don't  make  it  harder  for  me!"  The  words  were 
whispered  with  a  piteous  tremble  of  the  voice.  Then  she 
came  up  to  him  and  placed  her  wrists  on  his  shoulders, 
clasping  the  hands  behind  his  head.  "You  can't  picture 
what  I've  gone  through  this  last  week.  I'd  written  to  say 
you  were  to  tell  granddad,  and  as  soon  as  you  got  back  we 
were  going  to  tell  father — together  .  .  .  Then  I  heard 
about  Maurice.  It  did  seem  hard !  I  thought  about  it  and 
argued  with  myself  about  it  and  I  tried  to  find  a  way  out, 
but  it  was  no  good.  Maurice  wants  me  and  I  must  go  to 
him:  it's  really,  really  got  to  be  good-bye  this  time.  You 
must  forget  about  it  all,  Denys,  and  I  mustn't  see  you  till — 
till  I'm  out  of  harm's  way.  No!  don't  say  anything  to 
shake  me!  I'm  not  strong  enough.  We  must  shut  the 
door  to-night,  •re,  now !"  She  laid  her  cheek  against  his 
with  a  convulsr^fe  sob,  and  then  unclasping  her  hands 
stepped  back  with  her  eyes  bent  to  the  ground.  "I  oughtn't 
to  have  done  that,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  Now  you  must 
help  me,  and  then  we'll  say  good-bye." 

"What  am  I  to  do  ?"  he  asked  in  a  dead  voice. 

"You  remember  taking  me  to  that  newspaper  office  in 
the  summer?  I  want  you  to  go  and  have  an  announcement 
put  in  for  to-morrow.  I  wrote  it  out  but  I  don't  know  if 
you  think  it'll  do."  She  took  a  slip  of  paper  out  of  the 
bosom  of  her  dress  and  handed  it  to  him.  Denys  read  it, 
altered  a  word  here  and  there,  and  gave  it  back.  It  read: 

"Mr.  Maurice  Weybrook,  who  met  with  an  accident  last 
week  is  reported  to  be  progressing  as  favourably  as  could 
be  expected.  In  consequence  of  the  accident,  his  marriage 
with  Lady  Daphne  Grayling,  the  only  daughter  of  the  Earl 
of  Parkstone,  has  had  to  be  postponed.  The  ceremony  was 


TRIES  TO  KEEP  HIS  PROMISE       283 

to  have  taken  place  in  the  New  Year,  and  we  are  informed 
that  the  date  will  be  announced  as  soon  as  Mr.  Weybrook 
is  sufficiently  recovered." 

Daphne  read  the  amended  announcement  and  gave  it 
back  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"You'll  go  round  at  once,  won't  you,  Denys?  I  want  it 
to  appear  to-morrow — for  Maurice's  sake;  I  was  only 
waiting  till  you  got  back.  Don't  tell  anyone  till  it's  ap- 
peared, or  mother  will  stop  it.  And  that  .  .  .  that's  all." 

As  she  fastened  her  cloak  she  looked  once  more  round 
the  room,  to  take  in  every  detail  and  stamp  the  impression 
on  her  mind.  Then  she  took  Denys'  hand  and  bade  him 
farewell,  conventionally  and  without  emotion.  He  accom- 
panied her  to  the  door,  picked  up  a  coat  and  hat  in  the 
hall,  and  walked  down  to  the  street.  Whistling  for  a  taxi, 
he  put  her  into  it,  and  with  a  glance  at  his  watch  began 
to  walk  eastward  to  the  office  of  the  NeuUztter. 

It  was  midnight  before  his  mission  Was  accomplished 
and  he  found  himself  once  more  sitting  in  front  of  his 
library  fire.  As  he  walked  back  from  Fleet  Street,  he  had 
passed  a  piano-organ  playing  a  new  ragtime  that  he  had 
not  heard  before.  The  air  lingered  in  his  memory,  and  he 
discovered  himself  half  unconsciously  whistling  it  over  to 
himself.  To  concentrate  his  mind  on  the  train  of  thought 
which  Daphne's  arrival  had  interrupted,  he  lit  a  fresh  cigar, 
and  as  the  blue  smoke-rings  widened  and  broke  he  seemed 
gradually  to  be  piercing  the  haze  and  viewing  the  future 
in  undistorted  perspective.  Unexpectedly,  almost  miracu- 
lously, he  had  been  rescued  from  the  false  position  in  which 
Sheila  had  placed  him  with  regard  to  Daphne.  He  was 
surprised  to  find  how  little  relief  he  felt  at  the  escape,  and 
how  great  in  proportion  were  his  pity  and  sense  of  loss. 
Something  large  and  vital  and  palpitating  seemed  to  have 
been  torn  out  of  his  life,  leaving  him  chastened,  spiritless, 


284  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

and  lonely.  Of  course  his  path  had  been  cleared  and 
straightened:  he  would  go  round  to  Sir  William  the  next 
day,  and  on  the  plea  of  a  desire  for  greater  independence 
beg  that  the  financial  assistance  he  was  at  present  enjoying 
be  discontinued.  And  then,  forgetting  Daphne  and  Sheila, 
he  would  fight  as  he  had  never  fought  before,  sword  and 
gun,  tooth  and  nail,  until  he  had  made  his  voice  heard  and 
his  leadership  accepted. 

It  was  the  only  thing  that  remained  to  him.  Lying  back 
in  his  chair,  he  considered  at  what  point  he  could  intervene 
with  most  effect  and  turn  the  privilege  of  a  maiden  speech 
to  most  account.  He  began  to  review  the  list  of  govern- 
ment measures  for  the  forthcoming  session.  The  Reform 
of  the  Poor  Law,  thai  would  do :  or  he  could  begin  earlier 
and  take  part  in  the  debate  on  the  Address.  And  then  he 
found  his  mind  wandering  away  from  Parliament  and  occu- 
pying itself  with  the  picture  of  Sheila  Farling.  Daphne's 
retirement  from  the  stage  had  left  him  free  to  play  out 
his  drama  without  hindrance  or  interruption :  he  had  told 
himself  this  so  many  times  that  he  was  coming  to  regard 
it  as  the  only  change  which  the  evening's  events  had  made 
in  his  fortunes.  But  at  the  back  of  his  mind  he  now  re- 
alised that  he  was  free  to  offer  himself  to  Sheila — if  he 
thought  it  worth  while  to  invite  a  rejection.  He  was  half 
glad  that  she  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him,  because 
that  made  it  easier  to  pursue  his  mission  with  single- 
minded  purpose.  But  he  was  more  than  half  sorry  that,  in 
the  nine  months  he  had  known  her,  he  had  been  unable 
to  win  any  share  of  her  well-guarded  affections  or  arouse 
any  feelings  more  intimate  than  those  of  amused  and  con- 
temptuous toleration.  He  knew  her  no  better  than  on  the 
day  in  early  spring  when  he  had  walked  up  the  accom- 
modation-ladder at  Gibraltar,  to  find  her  standing,  slight, 
black-eyed  and  mischievous,  waiting  for  her  grandfather 
to  introduce  them  to  each  other. 


TRIES  TO  KEEP  HIS  PROMISE       285 

In  the  interval  much  had  happened.  He  counted  off 
each  fresh  development  on  his  fingers.  First  he  had  figured 
as  a  legitimate  source  of  amusement  to  her;  then  she  had 
decided  to  employ  him  as  an  instrument  of  providence  in 
freeing  her  cousin  from  the  unfortunate  engagement  to 
Maurice ;  then  the  new  combination  of  forces  was  to  be  used 
to  foil  the  political  schemes  to  which  his  life  had  been  de- 
voted. The  Riversley  ball  had  been  her  Austerlitz:  every- 
thing had  been  staked  on  it  and,  whatever  its  issue,  the 
result  for  him  was  the  same.  If  she  won,  she  had  no 
further  use  for  him:  if  she  lost — as  she  had  lost — her 
forces  were  too  shattered  for  a  fresh  engagement.  They 
would  never  meet  again,  even  to  fight. 

That  disposed  of  Sheila.  His  cigar  had  gone  out,  and 
as  he  relit  it  he  found  that  he  had  not  disposed  of  Sheila 
in  any  way.  At  that  moment  she  was  probably  sitting  in 
front  of  a  fire,  soft,  warm,  intensely  human  and  eminently 
lovable.  She  was  talking  with  that  delightful  rapid  utter- 
ance interspersed  with  cascades  of  silvery  laughter  which 
he  so  loved  to  hear.  And  he  was  sitting  lonely  and  cheer- 
less, separated  by  the  breadth  of  the  park.  In  a  month's 
time  they  would  be  separated  by  the  breadth  of  the  Atlantic ; 
in  six  months'  time  by  the  breadth  of  the  world  and  the 
length  of  Eternity.  It  annoyed  him  to  see  how  firm  a  grip 
she  had  taken  of  liis  thoughts,  and  starting  up  from  his 
chair  he  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room  with  his 
hands  locked  behind  his  back.  Suddenly  he  came  to  a 
standstill  in  front  of  the  fire.  Above  the  mantelpiece  was 
a  blank  space  on  the  wall:  the  portrait  of  his  grandfather 
had  stood  there  and  he  had  removed  it  at  her  request. 
There  was  no  reason  under  heaven  why  he  should  regard 
her  requests  now,  and  with  a  smile  of  unamiable  purpose 
he  left  the  library  in  search  of  the  picture.  It  was  lying 
in  the  box-room,  already  deep  in  dust,  and  he  had  to  brush 
the  canvas  gently  with  a  towel  before  the  lean,  drawn  face 


286  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

leapt  out  to  confront  him  with  its  dark,  deep-set  eyes  out- 
standing cheek-bones,  and  haunting  expression  of  mute,  suf- 
fering reproach. 

For  a  few  moments  he  gazed  at  it  under  the  spell  of  a 
morbid  fascination.  Then  some  particles  of  the  long-accu- 
mulated dust  laid  hold  of  his  throat  and  set  him  coughing. 
Resting  the  picture  against  a  chair  he  started  up  and  walked 
the  length  of  the  library,  coughing  as  though  a  spirit  had 
entered  into  him  and  were  tearing  his  lungs  into  ribbons. 
At  last  the  paroxysm  spent  itself  and  he  sank  on  to  a  sofa, 
gasping  and  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 
Then — for  no  reason  but  an  indefinable  fear — he  put  the 
handkerchief  to  his  lips  and  gazed  with  sickening  horror 
at  a  bright  red  stain  of  blood.  He  had  expected  it  for 
three  years,  but  every  that  passed  without  the  fulfilment 
of  his  expectation  had  established  him  in  a  sense  of  uneasy 
security.  With  a  sudden  feeling  almost  guilty  repulsion 
he  dropped  the  handkerchief  into  the  fire  and  watched  the 
blood-stain  blackening,  shrivelling,  and  finally  disappear- 
ing from  view.  Then  he  re-hung  the  portrait  in  its  old 
place  and  stood  for  a  moment  to  draw  inspiration  and  wrath 
from  the  face  of  sorrow. 

Then,  with  the  shadow  of  death  at  his  elbow,  he  sat  down 
to  arrange  an  appointment  with  Dr.  Gaisford,  and  deal 
with  the  accumulated  arrears  of  correspondence. 

"If  you're  not  going  to  follow  my  advice  in  any  single 
particular,  Denys,  I  candidly  don't  know  why  you  troubled 
to  let  me  examine  you." 

Dr.  Gaisford  swung  round  in  his  revolving,  leather- 
backed  chair  and  faced  his  patient. 

"I  wanted  to  know  how  I  stood.     May  I  smoke?" 

"No.  I  forbid  it  absolutely,  and  if  you  won't  obey  me 
at  other  times,  I  can  at  least  get  my  way  in  my  own  con- 
sulting-room. Well,  you  know  now  exactly  how  you  stand. 
You're  touched,  but  at  present  it's  nothing  very  serious. 


TRIES  TO  KEEP  HIS  PROMISE       287 

If  you'll  go  away  at  once  for  six  months — South  Africa  or 
Canada — you'll  come  back  cured,  and  you  can  take  up  your 
parliamentary  duties  and  marry  a  wife  and  do  just  what 
you  please.  If  you  don't,  well,  it's  only  a  question  of  weeks, 
or  at  most  of  months,  before  you  get  past  mending." 

"I  see.  Well,  it's  most  satisfactory  to  know  just  how 
much  rope  you  allow  me.  Good-bye,  doctor.  We  meet  on 
Thursday  at  the  Empire  Hotel." 

"Sit  down,  Denys.  Look  here,  I'm  not  talking  as  your 
doctor  now,  I'm  talking  as  a  man  twice  your  own  age  and 
an  old  friend  into  the  bargain.  What's  the  matter?  I 
want  to  be  taken  into  your  confidence." 

"There's  nothing  the  matter." 

"You  may  tell  that  to  the  marines!  I've  just  warned 
you  that  if  you  don't  clear  out  of  England  you'll  die  and 
no  time  lost  about  it.  You  tell  me  you  won't  go.  I  retort 
that  you're  deliberately  committing  suicide.  Denys,  is  it  a 
question  of  money?  Because  if  it  is,  I'll  never  forgive  you 
for  not  drawing  on  me." 

"It  isn't  money,  and  I  know  I  can  always  turn  to  you  in 
a  difficulty,  and  you  know  I  know  it  and  that  I'm  properly 
grateful.  It's  just  a  question  of  time.  I  can't  run  away 
for  the  whole  of  my  first  session." 

Dr.  Gaisford  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  writing- 
table.  "Think  you're  going  to  make  anything  of  a  mark 
in  the  House,  Denys?" 

"One  hopes  so." 

"Are  you  going  to  make  it  in  your  first  three  months?" 

"That's  rather  short  time,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  all  you'll  get.  Why  not  postdate  your  triumphs 
for  six  months  and  then  start  to  win  them  with  a  decent 
constitution.  Life  is  sweet,  my  friend  Denys." 

"No,  I'm  damned  if  it  is,"  the  young  man  burst  out 
explosively.  . 

"Believe  me,  you're  wrong.     I've  had  nearly  twice  as 


288  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

much  of  it  as  you've  had,  and  it  grows  sweeter  every  day. 
And  I  never  had  half  your  brains  or  a  tithe  of  your  good 
looks.  You're  out  of  sorts  and  down  on  your  luck  and 
you  can't  judge  properly.  You  must  let  me  judge  for 
you." 

Denys  got  up  and  struggled  into  a  heavy  fur  coat.  "I'll 
see  if  life  is  any  sweeter  at  your  supper-party,  doctor," 
he  remarked.  "I  suppose  you're  not  cancelling  my  invita- 
tion, are  you?" 

"I  ought  to.  You  oughtn't  to  be  out  these  foggy  Decem- 
ber nights,  but  if  you  don't  come  to  me  you'll  go  somewhere 
else,  and  I  can  at  least  keep  you  from  smoking." 

"Not  if  you've  got  a  spark  of  the  old  hospitality  about 
you,"  said  Denys  with  a  laugh  that  ended  in  a  fit  of 
coughing. 

The  following  Thursday  evening  Dr.  Gaisford  was  seated 
at  the  head  of  his  supper-table  in  a  private  room  at  the 
Empire  Hotel.  It  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  hotel  had 
inaugurated  a  gala  night  with  Christmas  trees,  ever- 
greens, a  distribution  of  presents,  and  a  ball  starting  at 
midnight.  The  table  was  laid  for  forty  guests  and  the 
average  age  was  about  three-and-twenty.  The  doctor  loved 
to  be  surrounded  by  young  faces,  and  had  only  overstepped 
the  age  limit  in  one  instance  by  inviting  Sir  William  Far- 
ling  to  keep  him  company  when  Sheila  retired  with  his 
other  guests  to  take  part  in  the  ball.  Supper  was  just 
beginning,  and  the  doctor,  under  cover  of  examining  his 
own  menu,  was  wondering  why  Denys  had  made  him  alter 
the  disposition  of  the  table  in  order  to  separate  Sheila  and 
himself. 

"No  trumps,"  remarked  Jack  Melbourne,  laying  down 
his  menu  with  a  sigh  of  appreciative  contentment.  "And 
it  looks  like  forty  above  for  the  grand  slam.  No!  I'm 
defeated:  omelette  a  1'absinthe  beats  me.  'Out  of  the 
•eater  came  forth  meat,  out  of  the  strong  came  forth  sweet- 


TRIES  TO  KEEP  HIS  PROMISE       289 

ness.'  The  last  time  I  met  that  dish  I  exceeded  and  was 
seriously  unwell." 

"There's  something  unhealthy  about  your  appetite,  Jack," 
remarked  his  neighbour,  "we  must  get  the  doctor  to  ex- 
amine you  and  see  if  you're  wasting." 

"No  need,  thanks,"  rejoined  Melbourne,  "my  appetite's 
only  an  instance  of  the  scientific  principle  that  nature  abhors 
a  vacuum.  Have  a  salted  almond  and  give  me  time  to  see 
who's  here."  His  eye  roved  round  the  table  until  it  fell 
on  a  young  Indian  civilian  sitting  opposite  him.  "Hullo, 
Sinclair,"  he  called  out,  "how  long  are  you  home  for?" 

"I'm  going  back  in  March.  I  wondered  if  I  should  meet 
you  here  to-night." 

"Where  the  body  is,  there  will  the  eagles  be  gathered 
together.  Been  making  history  in  India?" 

"I've  got  married,  if  you  call  that  making  history." 

"I  call  it  a  revelation  quite  unsuited  to  mixed  company !': 

"From  which  I  gather  you're  still  unmarried.  What  are 
you  doing  with  yourself  these  times?" 

"Remaining  unmarried.  This  is  the  age  of  specialisa- 
tion." 

"But  taking  your  not  inconsiderable  personal  charms  into 
account,  isn't  that  rather  a  selfish  and  inhuman  ideal?" 

"Oh,  possibly."  He  turned  and  addressed  his  neigh- 
bour in  an  undertone.  "A  most  depressing  young  man, 
Sinclair.  He  always  fancies  one  has  to  be  doing  something 
or  putting  one's  shoulder  to  a  wheel  of  some  kind  or 
other.  He  won  every  prize  at  school  and  at  the  'Varsity, 
and  passed  into  the  Indian  Civil  head  of  the  list.  His  life 
is  a  record  of  wasted  opportunities.  Now  he's  married  a 
a  wife  and  will  spend  the  evening  of  his  declining  days  in 
crying  over  the  milk  he  never  had  the  immoral  courage  tc 
spill.  You  heard  him  just  now  asking  me  what  I  was 
doing.  He  has  never  studied  the  modern  theory  of  the 
division  of  labour." 


29o  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"And  what  is  that?"  asked  his  neighbour,  one  of  those 
freckled,  pale-faced  girls  who  are  so  plain  that  they  fear 
no  one  will  ever  take  the  trouble  to  shock  them,  but  hope 
on  nevertheless. 

"The  theory  that  some  people  like  work  and  others  don't, 
and  if  you  leave  work  undone  long  enough  someone  else 
will  do  it  for  you." 

"We  can't  all  exist  on  that  theory;  there  must  always 
be  a  certain  amount  of  give  and  take." 

"True,  and  it  requires  a  very  high  order  of  mind  to 
know  how  much  you  can  take  and  how  little  you  need  give." 

He  swallowed  the  last  oyster  with  evident  regret,  and 
fidgeted  discontentedly  with  his  fish-knife  till  the  soup  made 
its  appearance.  In  the  meantime,  Sinclair  returned  to  the 
attack. 

"I  believe  you  used  to  know  my  wife — Gertrude  Ibbet- 
son  she  was." 

"Did  I?"  He  turned  to  the  freckled  girl  with  an  ill- 
concealed  groan.  "Gertrude  Ibbetson.  That  stamps  the 
man." 

"But  surely  you  can't  ..." 

"Indeed  you  can.  Nowadays  a  man  is  known  by  the 
wives  he  keeps.  Talking  of  which,  did  you  read  your 
Newsletter  this  morning?  I  see  Lady  Daphne's  going  to 
marry  Maurice  after  all." 

"Including  Riversley.  Yes,  I  was  rather  surprised.  Have 
you  seen  Maurice  since  the  accident?" 

"Yes,  I  called  round  at  the  hospital  to-day.  He  wasn't 
a  beauty  at  the  best  of  times,  but  love  must  be  pretty 
blind  to  tolerate  him  now.  He  looked  like  a  child's  puzzle 
with  several  of  the  principal  pieces  left  out." 

"Is  he  going  to  get  all  right?" 

"Oh,  I  think  so.  He'll  get  back  the  use  of  his  legs,  and 
his  head  doesn't  seem  capable  of  further  damage." 

"How  did  the  Parkstones  take  the  announcement?" 


TRIES  TO  KEEP  HIS  PROMISE       291 

"I  think  they  were  fairly  well  satisfied.  Lady  Parkstone 
told  Sir  William  that  nothing  could  have  been  more  credit- 
able than  Maurice's  apology  to  Daphne.  'The  words  came 
straight  from  his  heart,'  she  said." 

"What  did  Sir  William  say?" 

"  'Straight  from  his  head,  I  should  fancy/ "  said  Jack 
with  a  good  imitation  of  Sir  William's  voice  of  displeasure. 

"  'Ex  nihilo  nihil  fit.*  And  as  his  daughter  doesn't  un- 
derstand Latin,  I  think  the  honours  rest  with  him.  Miss 
Sheila's  the  person  I  want  to  talk  to.  I  should  like  to  get 
to  the  bottom  of  the  Riversley  episode:  she  doesn't  seem 
half  as  much  cut  up  as  she  ought  to  be,  after  taking  the 
trouble  to  be  found  out  so  flagrantly.  The  whole  thing 
offends  my  sense  of  .  .  ."  He  hesitated  for  a  word. 

"Morality?"  suggested  the  freckled  girl. 

"Propriety,  rather.  Morality  is  the  art  of  being  found 
out  at  the  right  time." 

Having  exhausted  most  of  the  impromptus  with  which 
he  had  come  armed,  Melbourne  concentrated  his  attention 
on  wild  duck  and  orange  salad  and  left  the  conversation 
to  take  care  of  itself.  With  less  acerbity  of  treatment,  the 
subject  of  Maurice  Weybrook's  accident  had  been  dis- 
cussed from  end  to  end  of  the  long  table.  He  was  known 
to  all  present,  and  as  four-fifths  of  the  guests  had  attended 
the  Riversley  ball,  the  announcement  in  that  morning's 
Newsletter  had  given  fresh  life  to  their  reminiscences  and 
conjectures  regarding  the  scene  in  the  conservatory.  The 
only  members  of  the  party  who  refused  to  join  the  dis- 
cussion were  Sir  William,  Denys,  Dr.  Gaisford  and  Sheila. 
Remembering  the  degree  of  intimacy  which  they  had 
achieved  on  their  homeward  voyage  in  the  spring,  the 
doctor  had  originally  decided  that  Denys  and  Sheila  should 
sit  next  each  other.  When  Denys  begged  for  a  rearrange- 
ment of  the  table,  he  had  himself  taken  Sheila  in  and  given 
Denys  charge  of  the  Indian  civilian's  wife.  His  early  spec- 


292  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

illations  on  the  division  between  the  two  young  people  had 
been  forgotten  in  the  general  cares  of  hospitality :  as  Sheila 
talked  with  an  exuberance  and  abandon  which  surprised 
even  herself,  there  seemed  little  obligation  on  him  to  look 
for  broken  hearts  to  mend. 

She  was  dressed  in  chestnut-brown,  hemmed  with  skunk 
and  tasselled  with  gold.  Her  black  eyes  were  shining  with 
pure,  untroubled  joy  of  existence,  and  all  within  earshot 
took  their  time  from  her  silvery  ripple  of  laughter.  Sir 
William  glanced  down  the  table  once  or  twice,  wondering 
at  the  sudden  change  which  had  come  over  her.  After 
the  night  of  the  Riversley  ball,  the  gaiety  had  died  out  of 
her  as  though  a  clumsy  giant  had  crushed  the  life  out  of 
her  butterfly  body.  In  a  moment,  and  no  later  than  that 
same  morning,  the  head  had  raised  itself,  the  fire  had  come 
back  to  her  eyes,  and  the  Sheila  that  he  most  loved  had 
been  born  again.  He  had  noticed  the  change  at  breakfast, 
and  since  then  nothing  had  had  power  to  ruffle  her.  Even 
the  definite  announcement  of  her  cousin's  coming  marriage 
elicited  no  outburst.  She  had  apparently  read  it  before 
he  could  get  hold  of  the  papers,  but  his  own  caustic  com- 
ments failed  to  arouse  any  sympathetic  echo. 

After  breakfast  she  had  taken  counsel  of  her  familiar 
spirit.  Seated  at  the  piano,  she  had  reviewed  the  whole 
situation  to  a  soft  accompaniment  of  certain  favourite 
waltzes.  The  fight  had  been  manfully  fought  out,  she  had 
spent  all  her  treasure  in  Daphne's  cause,  and  if  Daphne 
chose  to  marry  Maurice  in  spite  of  her  sacrifices  and  en- 
deavours she  could  do  no  more.  Yet  the  sacrifice  had  not 
been  made  in  vain:  it  was  only  when  she  seemed  to  have 
lost  Denys  beyond  power  of  recall  that  she  appreciated  her 
need  for  him.  It  was  worth  much  to  have  found  that  out, 
it  was  worth  the  humiliation  at  Riversley  to  have  discovered 
that  he  did  not  love  Daphne.  It  had  been  a  narrow,  provi- 
dential escape,  and  she  did  not  choose  to  calculate  how 


TRIES  TO  KEEP  HIS  PROMISE       293 

much  she  owed  to  a  chance  motor  accident  at  the  corner 
of  Pall  Mall.  And  now  the  clouds  had  rolled  away,  Denys 
stood  free  of  the  shackles  she  had  riveted  on  him. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  playing  and  walked  away  to  the 
window.  She  supposed  she  was  not  building  without 
foundations :  she  was  justified  in  thinking  that  freedom  for 
Denys  meant  only  a  new  servitude.  He  had  said  nothing 
to  support  such  a  theory  in  all  the  time  she  had  known 
him ;  her  evidence  of  his  devotion  to  her  was  of  a  flimsy, 
negative  character.  She  picked  up  a  white  chrysanthemum 
and  began  to  pull  it  petal  from  petal,  and  then  threw  it 
impatiently  away  because  she  found  herself  playing  the 
children's  game,  "He  loves  me,  he  loves  me  not."  Of 
course  he  loved  her :  if  he  did  not — as  she  ruefully  admitted 
to  herself — no  man  would  have  endured  the  slights  she  had 
from  time  to  time  put  upon  him.  And  Denys  was  the  only 
person  whose  anger  at  Riversley  had  been  founded  on  the 
injury  she  was  doing  to  her  own  good  name.  Of  course  he 
loved  her,  and  it  was  that  thought  which  sent  the  blood  into 
her  cheeks  and  the  light  into  her  eyes  as  she  looked  down 
the  table  to  the  place  where  he  sat  in  conversation  with  his 
vis-a-vis,  the  clear-cut  outline  of  his  features  turned  to  her 
in  profile,  the  soft,  low  voice  occasionally  audible  above 
the  gusty,  intermittent  laughter  of  his  neighbours. 

All  too  slowly  for  Sheila  the  supper  dragged  its  course, 
until  at  last  the  cigars  were  reached  and  her  host  made 
his  way  round  the  table  distributing  the  presents  he  had 
chosen  for  his  guests.  With  all  the  patience  she  could 
muster,  she  waited  through  a  seemingly  interminable  period 
of  smoking  until  at  last  the  opening  bars  of  the  first  waltz 
floated  up  the  stairs  from  the  ball-room.  With  the  regret- 
ful sigh  of  the  well-fed,  the  men  threw  away  their  cigars, 
pushed  back  their  chairs,  and  accepted  the  programmes 
which  a  waiter  was  serving  out.  Dr.  Gaisford  and  Sir 
William  retired  hors  de  combat,  and  Sheila  found  herself, 


294  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

as  usual,  surrounded  by  a  clamorous  throng  of  admirers. 
"Four,  seven,  nine  and  sixteen,  Miss  Sheila,"  began  Jack 
Melbourne.  "I  suppose  there'll  be  another  supper;  there 
ought  to  be,  and  I  should  like  it  if  I  may  have  it.  What 
about  eleven  and  twelve  for  supper?" 

"You  can't  have  supper,  Mr.  Melbourne,"  said  Sheila, 
"I'm  keeping  it." 

"Go  away,  Jack,  you've  had  more  than  your  fair  share," 
expostulated  another  admirer.  "Sheila,  what  have  you 
got  left  in  the  first  half?  May  I  have  the  first  two,  and 
eight,  and  thirteen,  and  eighteen,  and  the  first  extra?" 

"Miss  Farling,  are  you  booked  for  six?"  broke  in  a  third. 
"Then  may  I  have  it?  And  nine?  Well,  who's  got  nine? 
he'll  have  to  change.  Jack,  you've  got  to  swap  nine  with 
me."  He  wandered  off  to  effect  a  deal  with  Melbourne 
while  Sheila  gazed  in  dismay  at  her  programme.  Half  the 
dances  were  already  gone,  and  Denys  had  not  even  ap- 
proached her.  She  glanced  round  the  room  and  saw  him 
still  seated  at  the  table  thoughtfully  finishing  his  cigar. 

"Sheila,  what  have  you  got  left?"  The  tumult  was 
breaking  out  afresh. 

"Come  back  in  a  week's  time  and  I  may  be  clear  by 
then,"  she  cried  out  in  desperation.  "I'm  in  such  a  mud- 
dle now  that  everybody  will  get  everybody  else's  dances 
the  whole  night  through." 

As  the  circle  broke  up  and  faded  away  in  search  of  fresh 
partners,  she  walked  to  the  end  of  the  room  where  Denys 
was  sitting  in  lonely  enjoyment  of  his  cigar. 

"I'm  rather  disappointed  in  you,  Denys,"  she  said  gently. 

He  rose  up  wearily  and  dropped  the  end  of  the  cigar  into 
a  finger-bowl. 

"I'm  sorry,  Sheila,  but  it  really  wasn't  my  fault.  If 
the  doctor  had  told  me  who  was  coming,  I'd  have  spared 
you  my  presence." 

"I  wasn't  meaning  that.    And  you  know  I  wasn't.    You 


TRIES  TO  KEEP  HIS  PROMISE       295 

don't  go  out  of  your  way  to  make  yourself  pleasant  now 
that  we  have  met." 

"I'm  doing  my  best.  I  promised  not  to  darken  your 
path,  and  through  no  fault  of  my  own  I've  broken  the 
promise." 

"I'll  forgive  you  and  we'll  lay  the  blame  at  the  doctor's 
door.  Deny's  do  be  nice  to  me.  I've  been  keeping  'Douces 
Pensees'  for  you,  and  'Liebestraum'  and  'Reve  de  Prin- 
temps,'  and  you  can  have  some  more  if  you  like." 

As  soon  as  the  programmes  were  distributed  he  had  put 
on  his  gloves  and  scribbled  his  initials  at  the  top  of  a  card. 
As  Sheila  finished  speaking  he  began  to  unbutton  them. 

"All  three  of  those  are  good,"  he  remarked  critically. 
"  'Douces  Pensees' — we  danced  that  together  at  Lady  Park- 
stone's  ball  just  before  you  sent  me  down  to  Devonshire. 
And  'Liebestraum' — we  were  going  to  have  that  at  Rivers- 
ley,  only — we  missed  it.  'Reve  de  Printempts'  I've  never 
had  with  you,  though  I  remember  dancing  it  with  Daphne 
— at  Riversley.  All  three  of  them  revive  pleasantly  sinister 
memories.  It's  very  kind  of  you,  Sheila,  but  I  don't  think 
it  will  help  things  if  we  prolong  the  agony.  I  apologise 
for  my  presence,  and  I  think  we'd  better  say  good-bye  to 
each  other." 

"Denys!"  She  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  his  arm. 
"Denys,  just  to  please  me!" 

"I'm  not  dancing  to-night,  Sheila." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  END  OF  ONE  VISION  AND  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  NEXT 

"Behold,  Dagon  was  fallen  upon  his  face  to  the  ground." 

I.  SAM.  v: 

"CONGRATULATE  you  on  your  speech,  Playfair." 

"Oh,  thanks  very  much." 

Denys  looked  up  and  tried  to  identify  the  speaker,  one 
of  many  hundred  strangers  confusedly  encountered  in  the 
lobby  or  dining-room.  He  was  beginning  to  remember 
their  faces  and  constituencies,  beginning  to  feel  at  home 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  the  greater  familiarity 
brought  with  it  a  sense  of  overwhelming  disillusionment. 
A  month  earlier  he  had  taken  his  seat:  the  entry  into  the 
House,  the  cheering,  the  oath,  the  introduction,  to  the 
Speaker  lingered  in  his  mind  as  the  last  phase  of  a  life's 
dream.  Then  he  had  gradually,  painfully  awakened.  For 
a  while  he  refused  to  admit  his  own  disillusionment:  he 
was  not  yet  reconciled  to  the  strangeness  of  his  new  sur- 
roundings, the  formality  and  circumlocution,  the  cut-and- 
dried  methods  of  the  Whips'  office,  the  machine-made  vic- 
tories in  the  lobbies,  the  disappearance  of  man  as  an  indi- 
vidual and  his  re-emergence  as  a  voter. 

As  he  rose  to  his  feet  the  dream  finally  melted  away. 
The  Government's  Electoral  Reform  Bill  was  under  con- 
sideration, the  House  reasonably  full  and  more  than  usually 
indulgent  to  a  new  member.  He  had  spoken  well,  earning 
encouragement  from  his  own  side  and  complimentary  words 
from  the  Minister  in  charge  of  the  bill:  there  would  be 

296 


THE  END  OF  ONE  VISION  297 

no  transference  of  votes,  but  he  had  secured  a  gratifying 
amount  of  lip-homage.  Then  amid  more  compliments  and 
congratulations  he  had  escaped,  to  be  alone  with  his  despair. 
The  House  of  Commons  with  its  jaded  audience,  its  vitiated 
atmosphere,  its  artificial  forms  and  style,  its  hatred  of 
heroics,  its  spirit  of  solemn  puerility,  is  a  disappointment 
to  most  unseasoned  members :  the  greater  their  seriousness 
and  ardour,  the  greater  will  be  the  sense  of  bathos.  To  one 
whose  earlier  experience  has  lain  among  great  popular 
meetings — quick,  emotional,  and  responsive — the  chasten- 
ing influence  of  a  House  of  Commons'  audience  is  almost 
insupportable.  Denys'  vision  had  seemed  nearest  achieve- 
ment when  he  was  addressing  South  London  workmen  at 
the  Lambeth  Public  Baths:  he  had  played  with  them  and 
hypnotised  them.  The  vision  was  never  so  remote  and 
unreal  as  when  a  succession  of  well-meaning  friends  con- 
gratulated him  on  the  best  maiden  speech  of  recent  years 
and  prophesied  a  great  political  future. 

Passing  by  the  Local  Government  Board  offices  to  collect 
his  thoughts,  he  walked  up  Whitehall,  down  the  Strand 
and  Fleet  Street,  up  Ludgate  Hill  and  into  the  City.  He 
was  unconsciously  bidding  farewell  to  London  and  the 
vampires  that  had  sucked  his  blood  for  five  years.  First 
the  narrow,  grimy  office  of  the  Newsletter,  then  the  pre- 
tentious, marble-pillared  edifice  of  the  Anglo-Hiberian. 
Walking  westward  along  the  Embankment  he  followed  the 
course  trodden  eight  months  earlier  with  Daphne,  past  the 
Savoy,  across  the  Strand,  up  Southampton  Street  into 
Covent  Garden,  along  Garrick  Street,  through  Leicester 
Square,  down  Piccadilly  to  Devonshire  House,  and  so  into 
Berkeley  Square.  One  chapter  after  another  of  life  lay 
trimmed  and  folded,  the  engines  would  run  on  for  a  few 
more  weeks  or  months,  but  there  was  nothing  more  tq 
print. 

Turning  back  along  Berkeley  Street  he  entered  the  Green 


298  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

Park  and  walked  in  the  direction  of  Buckingham  Gate. 
The  sight  of  Stafford  House  reminded  him  of  a  last  pil- 
grimage still  to  be  undertaken,  and  he  entered  Cleveland 
Row.  The  House  of  Commons,  in  robbing  him  of  his 
vision,  had  left  him  purposeless :  his  health  was  broken,  all 
that  remained  was  to  slink  away  and  die.  He  wanted  to 
die  alone,  as  he  had  lived,  independent  and  ineffectual,  to 
cut  away  the  last  ties  that  united  him  to  his  fellow-man.  On 
the  plea  of  greater  freedom  he  was  calling  to  say  good-bye 
to  Sir  William,  to  thank  him  for  his  support  and  announce 
his  intention  of  fighting  thereafter  as  a  free  lance.  There 
was  another  sub-conscious  intention,  or  at  least  expecta- 
tion, in  his  call.  Though  he  remained  obstinately  true  to 
his  bitter  promise  and  refused  to  meet  Sheila,  he  was  in 
hopes  of  catching  a  last  glimpse  of  her  before  she  sailed. 
In  the  pocket  of  his  coat  lay  a  red  morocco  jewel-case  con- 
taining a  gold  chain  set  with  pearls:  he  had  brought  it  as 
a  birthday  present,  though  by  the  time  her  birthday  was 
reached  she  would  be  among  the  Coral  Islands  of  the 
Pacific  and  he  ...  No  one  knew  where  he  would  be. 

"Sir  William  is  not  at  home,  sir,  at  present.  Miss  Sheila 
is  in." 

"Oh,  I  won't  bother  her,  thank  you,  Simpson.  I  think 
I'll  come  in  and  wait  till  Sir  William  comes  back." 

He  was  shown  into  the  library  of  the  flat  and  provided 
with  cigarettes  and  the  evening  papers.  A  bright  fire  was 
burning  and  he  sat  down  in  front  of  it,  shivering  even  in 
his  fur  coat.  In  another  week  the  Farlings  were  starting 
for  the  South  Seas.  Yawning  cavities  in  the  bookcases  and 
an  unwonted  absence  of  papers  on  the  writing-table  be- 
tokened their  approaching  departure.  It  was  not  known 
how  long  they  would  be  away,  but  a  minimum  absence  of 
twelve  months  was  expected.  Another  summer,  another 
autumn  with  falling  leaves,  shortening  days  and  deepening 
mists,  and  then  another  pitiless  winter:  ever  since  his  visit 


THE  END  OF  ONE  VISION  299 

to  Dr.  Gaisford  a  month  before,  Denys  had  been  watching 
his  symptoms  with  morbid  interest  and  had  convinced  him- 
self that  he  could  not  outlast  another  English  winter.  And 
he  was  afraid  to  die.  Every  torment  which  could  be  de- 
vised by  a  highly-strung,  nervous  spirit  living  in  loneliness 
and  depression  had  been  put  into  practice  and  only  super- 
seded when  one  of  greater  ingenuity  suggested  itself.  He 
had  studied  the  subject  of  phthisis  in  an  encyclopaedia  and 
marked  down  cases  where  a  surprising  longevity  had  been 
attained  despite  the  scourge ;  and  then  he  had  entered  upon 
the  Dther  side  of  the  account  those  classic  instances  of 
malignant  attacks  where  death  had  been  sighted  at  the 
distance  of  a  few  days,  almost  of  a  few  hours. 

Without  any  seriousness  of  purpose  he  had  once  as  a 
matter  of  interest  weighed  himself  after  dinner  at  the  club, 
and  noted  the  result  in  his  pocket-book.  Thereafter  it 
became  a  fixed  habit  and  well-nigh  a  religious  observance 
never  to  leave  the  club  without  a  visit  to  the  weighing- 
machine.  At  times  he  would  be  seized  with  terror  when 
the  dial  registered  an  unexpectedly  low  figure,  until  the 
change  was  explained  away  by  the  fact  that  he  was  now 
weighing  himself  in  thin  dress-clothes:  at  times  again  a 
passing  sense  of  security  would  be  shattered  by  the  re- 
flection that  he  had  absent-mindedly  forgotten  to  remove 
his  overcoat.  He  became  obsessed  with  false  shame  and 
fear  that  everyone  was  noticing  the  ebb  of  his  strength: 
whenever  he  coughed  there  was  an  irresistible  furtive  ap- 
plication of  a  handkerchief  to  his  lips. 

Despite  his  promise  he  found  himself  praying  for  an 
opportunity  of  meeting  Sheila  before  he  left,  and  asking 
her  in  person  to  accept  his  present  and  an  apology  for  his 
behaviour  at  Dr.  Gaisford's  supper-party.  The  sound  of  a 
quick,  light  step  was  audible  from  the  adjoining  room,  but 
the  snatches  of  song  which  usually  marked  her  presence 
were  wanting.  Then  the  telephone  bell  rang  out  from  the 


300  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

library  and  she  entered  behind  his  chair.  Passing  without 
seeing  him,  she  picked  up  the  instrument. 

"Hallo!  Yes.  Sheila.  Who?  Oh,  Denys.  He's  not 
come  yet,  but  I'll  tell  him  to  stay  when  he  does  turn  up. 
My  dear,  I  can't,  I'm  in  the  middle  of  packing  and  don't 
in  the  least  want  to  talk  to  him.  Oh,  of  course  if  you  want 
me  to,  I  will.  I  say,  don't  ring  off  yet,  Father  Time.  When 
will  you  be  back?  Then  I'd  better  say  we  shan't  want 
dinner  till  a  quarter  to  nine.  You'll  have  to  entertain  him 
afterwards,  then.  I  simply  must  pack,  and  I  don't  seem 
to  have  any  clothes  to  wear,  even  in  the  Pacific.  Good- 
bye." 

She  replaced  the  receiver  and  turned  to  find  Denys 
facing  her  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

"Hallo,"  she  remarked  without  embarrassment.  "I  didn't 
know  you  were  there.  You've  just  heard  me  tell  Father 
Time  that  I  don't  in  the  least  want  you  asked  to  stay  to 
dinner.  However,  as  you  are  here,  we  must  do  our  best 
for  you.  Been  here  long?" 

He  glanced  at  his  watch.    "About  half  an  hour." 

"Oh,  I  was  in  the  next  room  if  you'd  wanted  to  see  me.n 

"I  didn't  care  to  disturb  you." 

"No.  Well,  just  tell  me  if  you've  got  everything  you 
want,  and  then  I  must  run  away  and  pack.  Cigarettes, 
matches;  have  something  to  drink,  won't  you?  And  why 
not  take  off  your  coat?" 

"I'm  rather  cold." 

"My  dear,  this  room's  like  a  charnel-house." 

Denys  helped  himself  to  a  cigarette,  chiefly  because  he 
wanted  something  to  do,  some  distraction  to  put  him  at  his 
ease.  Sheila  was  being  provokingly  polite  and1  matter-of- 
fact;  she  showed  neither  annoyance  nor  pleasure  at  seeing 
him ;  he  was  merely  one  of  her  grandfather's  guests,  to  be 
treated  with  conventional  civility  while  he  remained  under 
their  roof-tree.  This  attitude  of  urbane  aloofness  was 


THE  END  OF  ONE  VISION          301 

probably  indicative  of  her  true  relationship  to  him;  he  had 
never  been  more  than  an  acquaintance  of  the  market-place, 
and  any  unbending  to  closer  intimacy  had  been  inspired  by 
detached  and  remorseless  purpose.  The  deeper  his  convic- 
tion, the  greater  grew  his  desire  to  disprove  its  truth.  His 
hand  slipped  into  his  pocket  and  brought  forth  the  morocco 
case. 

"Sheila,  I've  brought  you  a  birthday  present,"  he  began 
diffidently. 

"How  kind  of  you,  especially  as  it  isn't  my  birthday  for 
another  five  months." 

"I  know,  but  I  shan't  be  within  a  thousand  miles  of  you 
then.  Have  a  look  at  it?" 

She  opened  the  case  and  glanced  at  the  chain  without 
taking  it  out.  "It's  very  pretty."  Then  she  snapped  down 
the  lid  and  handed  it  back  to  him.  "Hadn't  you  better 
keep  it  for  someone  who'll  appreciate  it  better?  I'm  not 
wearing  jewellery  these  times,"  she  added  in  a  tone  that 
reminded  him  of  his  own  last  words  at  the  supper-party. 
"You  don't  mind,  do  you?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  say,  don't  let  me  interrupt  your 
packing."  He  leant  against  the  mantelpiece,  inhaling  the 
smoke  of  his  cigarette.  Sheila  lingered  in  the  room,  un- 
willing to  leave  him,  unable  to  keep  command  of  her 
tongue  and  ready  to  bite  it  out  for  the  words  it  had  just 
spoken.  They  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence,  then  the 
smoke  of  the  cigarette  set  Denys  coughing.  The  attack 
increased  in  violence  with  every  effort  to  check  it,  until 
at  last  he  dropped  into  a  chair  gasping  for  breath,  with 
the  veins  standing  out  on  his  forehead.  Through  force 
of  habit  he  pressed  his  handkerchief  to  his  lips  and  brought 
it  away  stained  as  on  the  night  when  he  had  bade  fare- 
well to  Daphne.  Then,  recollecting  Sheila's  presence,  he 
hid  it  from  view  and  picked  up  the  cigarette  from  where 
it  had  dropped  on  the  carpet  when  the  paroxysm  gripped 


302  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

him.  Sheila  watched  him  for  a  moment  and  then  sat 
down  in  the  chair  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace. 

"I  suppose  I  was  meant  not  to  see  that,"  she  said  in  a 
tone  of  detachment  which  was  meant  to  disguise  her  hor- 
ror. "How  long  has  this  been  going  on  ?" 

"Oh,  not  long.  Do  you  know  how  soon  Sir  William 
will  be  back?  I'll  leave  a  note  if  he's  likely  to  be  long." 

"Have  you  seen  a  doctor?" 

"Yes.    May  I  write  your  grandfather  a  line,  Sheila?" 

"No.    What  did  he  say?" 

"A  lot  of  things;  doctors  always  do." 

"Did  he  say  you  ought  not  to  stop  in  this  country?" 

"Yes.  I  say,  need  we  pursue  the  subject?  It's  not  par- 
ticularly interesting." 

"It  is  to  me.    Why  don't  you  do  what  he  tells  you?" 

"Why  should  I?    What's  to  be  gained  by  it?" 

"Well,  it  might  save  your  life.  That's  worth  think- 
ing of." 

"Is  it?" 

"Isn't  it?  You're  just  starting  your  career  in  parlia- 
ment ;  everybody  tells  me  how  promising  you  are,"  she 
added  scornfully. 

"That  must  be  gratifying  to  you.  Good-bye,  Sheila: 
let's  be  honest  for  once  and  admit  it  when  we're  beaten. 
If  anyone  would  take  my  grandfather's  memory  and  drown 
it,  I  should  be  the  first  to  thank  him.  I've  made  my 
maiden  speech  and  my  gods  died  at  the  end  of  it.  The 
fight's  over.  I'm  sick  of  it,  I'm  done  for." 

He  held  out  his  hand  preparatory  to  leaving.  Sheila 
got  up  from  her  chair  and  took  it  without  letting  it  go. 

"Why  are  you  staying,  then,  if  there's  nothing  to  stay 
for?" 

"What's  to  be  won  by  going  anywhere  else?  I  know 
St.  Moritz  and  Davos  and  Mentone  and  Egypt.  I've  said 
good-bye  to  so  many  people  who've  been  ordered  south,. 


THE  END  OF  ONE  VISION  303 

and  I've  met  so  many  more  who've  gone  out  there  to 
die.  I  used  to  think  I'd  like  to  finish  up  in  Ireland,  but 
London's  the  place  I  know  best  and  love  best.  And  it'll 
come  quickest  if  I  stay  here." 

"Is  that  an  advantage?" 

Absently  he  possessed  himself  of  her  other  hand  and 
swung  them  gently  together.  "It's  the  only  satisfactory 
solution.  I've  got  nothing  to  look  forward  to.  You  don't 
appreciate  what  it  is,  Sheila,  to  have  the  bottom  suddenly 
knocked  out  of  the  work  that's  kept  you  going  ever  since 
you  can  remember.  What  good  is  it  to  me  to  get  patched 
up  and  sent  back  to  an  existence  without  any  purpose  or 
interest  in  it?  All  the  time  I  thought  I'd  a  mission  in 
life,  I  was  fretting  and  grumbling,  wanting  to  get  back 
to  my  books.  I  was  beginning  to  make  a  name  there — 
before  I  got — what  I  thought  was — a  call.  Now  that  I 
could  go  back — oh,  I'm  tired,  tired!" 

"But  when  you're  rested  and  well  ..." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  good  enough.  The  fight's 
gone  out  of  me ;  there's  nothing  to  come  back  to.  I've 
got  no  relations  to  miss  me  and  not  many  friends.  If 
you'd  tell  me  a  single  living  soul  who  cared  whether  I 
lived  or  died,  I'd  listen  to  you.  As  it  is,  half  a  dozen 
people  will  say  'How  sad !  Only  six-and-twenty !  Such  a 
promising  young  man,  too!'  And  there  it'll  end.  Sheila, 
before  I  say  good-bye  I  should  like  to  apologise  for  being 
— rude  to  you  at  Gaisford's  supper.  And  I  wish  you'd 
take  the  chain ;  you  may  not  care  for  it,  but  you  can 
salve  your  conscience  with  the  reflection  that  no  one  else 
is  likely  to  care  for  it  more.  And  now — I'm  sorry,  I  didn't 
notice  I'd  been  holding  your  hands  all  this  time.  Good- 
bye." 

He  turned  and  walked  to  the  door,  leaving  her  standing 
motionless  in  the  firelight.  His  last  act  had  been  to  place 
the  jewel-case  once  more  in  her  hand,  and  she  gazed  ab- 


304  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

sently  at  it  for  a  moment  before  ringing  the  bell  to  have 
him  shown  out.  Then,  as  she  crossed  the  library  to  her 
own  room,  there  was  the  sound  of  a  fall  followed  by 
the  slam  of  the  front  door.  She  listened  for  a  further 
sound  and  was  going  into  the  hall  to  investigate,  when 
the  footman  entered  with  a  scared  expression  on  his  face. 

"Mr.  Playfair's  taken  ill,  miss,"  he  began.  "I  was  show- 
ing him  out  when  he  dropped  all  of  a  heap  and  fell 
against  the  door.  I  think  he's  fainted,  miss." 

Sheila  hurried  past  him  into  the  hall  to  find  Denys 
lying  grotesquely  huddled  with  his  head  in  the  umbrella 
stand.  Motioning  to  the  man  to  take  him  by  the  shoul- 
ders she  lifted  his  feet  and  the  two  of  them  carried  him 
into  the  library  and  laid  him  on  the  sofa.  Then  she 
dismissed  Simpson  for  water  and  brandy,  undid  Deny's 
collar,  and  telephoned  for  Dr.  Gaisford.  Feverishly  re- 
placing the  receiver,  she  opened  the  window  and  sprinkled 
the  passive  face  with  water.  After  a  seemingly  inter- 
minable time  she  was  rewarded  with  the  sight  of  a  faint 
movement,  followed  by  a  weary  opening  of  the  eyes.  They 
were  instantly  closed  again  and  he  lay  back  for  a  mo- 
ment with  a  sigh.  Then  gradually  exerting  himself  he 
rose  to  a  sitting  posture  and  gazed  unsteadily  round  the 
room. 

"Sit  still,  don't  move,  drink  this,"  she  ordered,  holding 
a  tumbler  to  his  lips. 

He  took  the  glass  in  a  trembling  hand  and  gulped  down 
the  raw  spirit.  Then  breathing  painfully  he  made  an 
effort  to  rise. 

"Sit  down,  Denys,"  she  implored  him;  "oh,  do  keep 
still." 

"I'm  all  right,  I  was  only  a  bit  faint.  I'm  often  like 
that." 

"Sit  down,  please,  Denys."  She  put  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders  and  forced  him  gently  back  on  to  the  sofa.  "I've 


THE  END  OF  ONE  VISION  305 

telephoned  for  Dr.  Gaisford  and  he's  coming  round  at 
once." 

"Bah!  what's  the  good  of  that?  He'll  tell  me  to  go 
to  bed,  and  I  won't  go  to  bed.  And  he'll  tell  me  to  go 
abroad,  and  I  won't  go  abroad."  He  spoke  with  the  petu- 
lance of  an  angry  child. 

"And  he'll  say  you  must  take  care  of  yourself — to  please 
me,"  she  whispered. 

"And  I  ...  Oh,  thank  you,  Sheila.  I'd  already  in- 
cluded you  in  the  half-dozen  people  who'd  say,  'How  sad, 
so  young !' " 

Sheila  was  too  frightened  to  heed  or  be  hurt  by  the 
words.  She  sat  silent,  watching  the  drawn  face  and  closed 
eyes  till  a  welcome  ring  announced  the  doctor's  arrival. 
Gaisford  made  a  hasty  examination  and  then  took  Sheila 
outside  the  door. 

"Can  you  fix  him  up  a  bed  here?  Well,  get  it  done 
at  once  and  I'll  put  him  into  it.  Young  fool!  I  warned 
him  what  would  happen.  And  he's  not  to  get  out  of  it 
on  any  pretext  whatever  till  I  give  him  leave.  By  the 
way,  aren't  you  just  going  abroad?" 

"Doesn't  matter,  we'll  wait." 

"It'd  be  better,  certainly;  if  he  gets  to  his  own  place 
nobody  cap  manage  him  ...  I  don't  know  if  Sir  Wil- 
liam has  any  influence  with  him;  he's  as  obstinate  as  a 
mule,  I  can't  get  him  to  listen  to  reason.  Somebody's  got 
to  get  him  out  of  England  and  keep  him  out  till  he's 
cured." 

Sheila  nodded  without  speaking. 

"Meantime  he'll  want  a  nurse.     I'll  send  one  in." 

"No,  I'll  look  after  him." 

"But  you  don't  know  anything  about  nursing." 

"I'll  do  whatever  you  tell  me." 

"It's  too  much  of  a  strain  for  a  slip  of  a  girl  like 
you." 


3o6  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

"Oh,  please,  please  let  me!" 

"You  must  have  relief ;  you  can't  do  night  and  day." 

"Oh,  I  can." 

The  doctor  patted  her  cheek  and  shook  his  head. 

"I'll  send  a  nurse  round  in  the  morning,  the  best  I  can 
find.  She  won't  be  as  good  as  you,  but  she'll  do  her  best. 
Now  if  you'll  order  the  bed  I'll  move  him  in." 

At  midnight  Denys  awoke  and  tried  to  remember  where 
he  was.  He  had  been  undressed  and  put  to  bed  without 
resistance  and  had  fallen  immediately  into  a  heavy  sleep, 
As  his  eyes  opened  and  took  in  first  the  night-light,  then 
the  fire,  then  the  strange  wall-paper  and  unfamiliar  fur- 
niture, Sheila  rose  from  her  chair  and  crept  noiselessly 
to  the  bedside.  He  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise  as  he 
saw  her,  then  the  memory  of  the  evening  came  back  to 
him  and  he  stretched  out  a  hand  and  caught  hold  of  her 
fingers. 

"You  must  go  to  sleep  again,"  she  whispered,  smooth- 
ing the  pillow  with  her  disengaged  hand.  He  carried  the 
imprisoned  fingers  to  his  lips,  kissed  them  and  dropped 
asleep  again,  smiling. 

At  two  he  awoke  again  and  raised  himself  in  bed  with 
a  painful  struggle.  Sheila  was  sitting  with  the  firelight 
reflected  in  her  black  eyes  and  her  hair  tied  in  two  heavy 
plaits  falling  forward  over  her  shoulders  and  stretching 
down  to  her  knees.  As  he  moved  she  came  forward  and 
asked  what  he  wanted. 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  gone,"  he  said. 

"I  won't  go." 

"Never?" 

"Not  till  you're  all  right." 

"Never?"  he  repeated. 

"You  mustn't  talk,  you  must  go  to  sleep." 

"Never,  Sheila?" 

"Not  if   ...  if  you  want  me,"  she  whispered. 


THE  END  OF  ONE  .VISION  307 

Denys  raised  himself  further  in  the  bed  and  looked  at 
her.  "Will  you  get  me  some  water,  please?" 

She  filled  a  tumbler  and  handed  it  him. 

"I've  got  something  to  tell  you,"  he  said  when  the  water 
was  finished. 

"Not  now,  Denys;  you  mustn't  talk,  you  must  go  to 
sleep  again." 

"But  it's  very  important." 

"It'll  keep  till  the  morning.  Do  lie  down  again,  to 
please  me." 

"I'm  going  to  get  well,  Sheila.    To  please  you." 

"But  you  won't  if  you  talk  now." 

"I'm  going  to  sleep  in  one  minute,  but  I  must  tell  you 
my  discovery.  It's  the  greatest  thing  that's  ever  happened 
to  me  or  anyone  in  the  world.  It  was  this  evening,  yester- 
day evening,  whenever  it  was.  I  thought  nobody  cared  if 
I  lived  or  died.  And  I  was  wrong.  And  I  saw  I  was 
wrong  the  last  time  I  woke  up  and  found  you  sitting  there. 
And  I  shut  my  eyes  and  went  to  sleep,  because  I  was  quite 
sure  it  couldn't  be  true.  But  it  was  a  lovely  dream." 

Sheila  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  made  him 
lie  down  again. 

"Dear  old  muddle-head!"  she  said  with  a  little  sob. 
"Oh,  Denys,  what  an  affliction  it  must  be  to  be  a  man! 
You  can't  put  two  and  two  together  unless  it's  written 
down  in  black  and  white,  and  then  you'll  add  it  up  wrong. 
Didn't  you  see  I  cared  for  you  from  the  moment  we  met 
on  board?  D'you  think  it  wasn't  gall  and  wormwood  to 
me  to  see  the  way  you  admired  Daphne?  Of  course  I'd 
have  done  anything  to  get  Daphne  out  of  her  engagement 
to  Maurice,  but  why  d'you  think  I  ever  sent  you  to  her 
if  it  wasn't  that  I  thought  you  loved  her  and  I  wanted 
to  make  you  happy?  You'll  never  know  what  I  went 
through  when  I  thought  I'd  succeeded.  It's  too  bad  to 
tell.  That  night  at  Riversley — it  was  the  first  time  I  ever 


3o8  SHEILA  INTERVENES 

thought  you  cared  for  me.  And  you'll  never  know  what  it 
was  like — after  the  engagement  was  announced.  And  I 
waited  and  you  never  came  near  me.  And  when  we  met 
at  that  supper,  and  I  tried  to  be  friends,  you  wouldn't 
have  anything  to  do  with  me.  Oh,  Denys,  dear  Denys, 
you've  got  a  lot  to  answer  for!  And  if  you  want  me  to 
forgive  you,  you  must  go  to  sleep  at  once!" 

He  lay  back  with  one  hand  holding  the  two  plaits  of 
hair  till  they  formed  an  oval  frame  for  the  dewy  eyes  and 
smiling  face. 

"I  can't  go  to  sleep  unless  you  kiss  me  good-night." 


THE    END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  046  299     4 


